


Crimsonberries, Blackberries

by court_court



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Dreams, Drinking, Explicit Language, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First AO3 Post, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 162,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/court_court/pseuds/court_court
Summary: An angry, injured Therion, left to die in the grass of the Flatlands, is chanced across by a wandering apothecary. Then, when he's forced to endure his company for a week, others find their ways into his story. And while he knows better than to get involved in other people's problems, to let people in to his life... it happens anyways.Why does this always happen to him?





	1. Eye for an Eye, Arm for an Arm

A dry wind was blowing. 

At a glance, the footpaths between the towns were empty, devoid of people. It was often like that in the Cliftlands, sun too strong and wind too cutting to give most travelers cause to linger. Only locals and fools took their time in the badlands (and some would argue that the two groups tended to overlap). Locals tarried along because they understood what they could find if they took a moment and looked, what kinds of animals lived wedged between rocks and which berries clung low to the shade. 

Fools took their time because they were dying. 

It was an easy thing to do, in that place. The Cliftlands were not quite like the Sunlands, nor the Frostlands, but they were still dangerous in their own right. Mainly, wayward travelers were most likely to die from dehydration, from misinterpreting the distance between rest stops and shallow riverbeds, or getting lost. 

Or falling from the cliffs, or the bridges, and the very thought was enough to stop plenty of travelers in their tracks.

Alone, on the path before a bridge, stood the small shadow of a man. 

He was the only person on this stretch of the road. He was a wanderer, as transient as the tumbleweeds that skirted over the hills, and while he had been rooted in Bolderfall for the past little while, he’d hesitate to call himself a local. 

He was hardly a fool, either, but he felt like one. The bangle locked firmly around his wrist spelled it out fairly clearly. 

His name was Therion, and he wasn't fond of this place. 

He wasn't the only one who wasn't fully sold on the barren beauty of the Cliftlands. Many of the travelers and wanderers who have passed through have had mixed opinions of the region. For some, it was too warm. For others, it was too dry. For others still, it was simply too _high_ , with too many hills and slopes and precariously wavering bridges stretching above the canyons to make it an easy trek. 

Therion's concerns, for the most part, fell into the last category. It wasn’t due to a lack of endurance, or a dislike of hauling himself up around buttes and mesas. A life on the road and on the run had worked him into good shape. So that wasn’t the problem at all. 

Right then, the problem happened to be the bridge before him. 

The bridge was not overly long. He could see that. But the drop below it was vertigo-inducingly high, and he kept hesitating, foot outstretched over the first plank. 

_It’s been six fucking years_ , he thought, biting his cheek. _Hurry up and get over it already. You’ve got work to do._

Remembering his task put him in a worse mood. The gentle clinking of the fool’s bangle whenever he shifted didn’t help matters.

He had thought of moving, but he didn't. His feet remained nailed to the spot.

_Just move already. We’re wasting time here._

Therion bit so hard he was on the verge of bleeding. He tore his gaze away from the canyon below, forcing himself to focus on a shrub on the other side. A deep, shaky breath tore its way through his chest. It was simple. Really simple. He just couldn’t think about the height. He couldn’t think about the drop below. He couldn’t think about— 

_Just **fucking** walk._

Ignoring the throbbing of his pulse in his ears, Therion grabbed firmly onto the ropes and made the trek over the bridge, shaking the entire way. 

He couldn't think about it. 

While on the bridge, it felt like an eternity, but the wave of relief that washed over his body upon stepping on the other side made it all the more obvious of how short the bridge really had been, and he felt stupid. 

_Pathetic._ The tingle of cold sweat on his brow felt like a mockery. 

Therion chewed on his irritation for a while longer, weaving his way down the paths until the altitude started to decrease once more. The reddish scenery gradually faded into browns, and finally traces of green breaking through the barren earth. The Flatlands were a dull place, to Therion, but decidedly much less stressful than the precipices of the Cliftlands and the ghosts that inhabited the valleys. 

Well, it was one ghost in particular, but still. Fuck him. 

At least it was easy to leave the worst of it behind. His reach had never extended too far beyond the Riverlands and parts of the Cliftlands. The Flatlands were pretty safe, in that regard. 

Or, well, he supposed so, anyways. He had never really wandered far beyond the boundaries of those two regions, and he wasn't sure whether or not the worst of his memories would follow. 

The skin under his bangle itched, and he scratched at it with a muttered curse. It was the real cherry on top to the whole situation, jingling softly with every single godsdamned step he made to remind him, and he dug his nails into the skin. 

_This is what you fucking deserve. You’re supposed to be a master thief, idiot._

Heathcote’s gaze seemed to follow him, even long out of Bolderfall. Every time he glanced at the metal cuff, or heard the noise of the short chain dangling from its loop, he recalled his soft-spoken words, gently admonishing him for his foolishness. There was praise, sure— there always was, for all his skill. 

Rarely, though, was Therion scolded for failing. 

Or, at least, he hadn’t heard words like that ever since before the ghost started following him. So, it didn’t feel particularly nice to hear things like that once more. 

Bored and annoyed, he took out his frustrations by kicking a small rock along the path. It caught on the toe of his boot and skittered a good distance away, bouncing unevenly over the dirt. Fuck his life. Fuck that barkeep for spreading rumours, fuck Heathcote for chaining this bangle to him, fuck that stupid girl ( _Cordelia? Was that her name?_ ) for trying to be fucking _nice_ to him right after he was blackmailed into doing this. Fuck them, fuck his arrogance, fuck his stupidity. 

Therion scowled deeper. What the hells even _were_ those gems, anyways?? Heathcote had only called them ‘dragonstones’, but hadn’t really mentioned anything further than that. Therion got the vague suspicion that they were much more significant than just gemstones (family heirlooms or not), but he hadn’t bothered to ask. He was too pissed off at their audacity, and, perhaps even more so than that, his own ineptitude. 

He kicked the rock as hard as he could. _This one’s for you, Heathcote, you rat bastard._

It sailed a good distance away, flying over the crest of the hill he was walking on. Therion was momentarily satisfied. 

He went over the top of the hill, and felt his heart sink when he noticed a group of travelers coming his way. He hated coming across other people in the first place, let alone when he was far from any form of civilization. Of course, most people encountered on the open roads weren’t looking for any particular form of trouble, and would give him little else than a friendly greeting, or a nod of acknowledgement, at the very least. 

These people looked like trouble, though. Therion had spent enough years on the road to have a good idea of who would let you pass nicely and who wouldn’t. 

But, Therion didn’t have any means to avoid them. They had already seen him, so there was no point in turning tail now and trying to escape. He could run, but where to? The Flatlands were mostly open valleys and plains, leaving him no space to hide. Best to just keep walking, mind his own business. 

Of course, that advice usually worked better when it was just a couple of people. There were four of them, and that made him nervous. One was fine, two was manageable. Three, maybe, if they were bad at fighting. But four was a bit more than he could handle, and he felt his pulse rising. He didn’t want to do this today. Not after the whole Ravus Manor endeavor, not after having his reputation marred with this bangle. 

“Oi! You there!” one of the men called, looking at Therion, and he stifled a sigh. Just his luck. 

He didn’t reply. Instead, he offered a silent prayer to Aeber that perhaps, by some miraculous stroke of luck, these hooligans would let him pass by peacefully and allow him to carry on his way _without_ a fight, but he knew better than that. The scars on his body told him otherwise. 

So, when he came level with them and the nearest bandit grabbed his arm, he unsheathed his dagger and whipped it over the meat of his forearm. The man howled and released him, spitting out a string of curses all the while, and Therion ran. 

All of them were yelling after him. Therion didn't dare look back to see if they were chasing him or not. 

It seemed, however, that Aeber really wasn’t listening to him that day. Therion was so focused on just getting out of there that he didn’t notice the dip in the road. His toes caught on a pothole and sent him crashing to the ground, dagger spinning away up the path. _Fuck!!_

The bandit’s voices were much louder now. Therion growled out a curse and shoved himself back to his feet, scrabbling for his dagger. Why now?? Why did he have to trip and fall _now_ , of all fucking times? 

A hand grabbed him roughly by the scarf and yanked him back, leaving his dagger just out of reach. One of the men picked it up, turning it slowly in his palm. 

Therion thrashed as one of the bandits took his arms and pinned them at his sides. He wasn’t strong enough to wrench himself free, and a short, frustrated growl escaped his throat. 

“Well, well, well...” one of the men sneered, examining his face. Therion supposed that he was the leader. “What a mannerless little prick we’ve caught ourselves here. Didn’t your mother ever teach you anything?” 

“Didn’t _your_ mother ever tell you to leave innocent travelers alone?” Therion rebuked, shooting him a hateful glare. 

The man barked out a laugh at his insolence. 

“Look, kid. A man’s gotta make a living in this cruel world, right?” he said, smiling in a way that was almost charming. “Some people tend shops, others work the land. Others still... Well. Looks like you already have a pretty good idea of what I mean, eh?” 

He gestured down towards the fool’s bangle, and Therion’s face burned. 

“Anyways, I was planning on just taking your leaves, but since you’ve got the balls to injure one of my men, I’ve thought of something extra-special for you. You know, in addition to robbing you.” 

“Goody,” Therion replied, flatly. 

“Goody indeed. See, I just got a little something, and I was curious to see just how well it worked....” 

_Aeber, you fucker, what the hells did I do to deserve this...??_

He took a vial from his pocket and uncorked it. A pale green liquid was held within. He supposed that it was probably poison of some sort. 

The man idly let a few drops coat the edge of his knife, tipping it to cover the length of the blade. 

“I’ve heard it takes about ten minutes to take effect. But that’s just a single drop. I wonder if three times the amount will change that?” 

“Why would it?” asked Therion, feigning bravery. 

“Why wouldn’t it?” replied the man, nodding to the bandit holding Therion’s arms. “Eye for an eye, let’s say.” 

One of Therion’s arms was pulled harshly, extending it before him. The fool’s bangle clattered from the motion. Therion’s squirming started up again, but it was no use. 

“You wouldn’t be so kind as to cut my hand off after I die, would you?” Therion asked, motioning with his chin towards the cuff, and the men laughed. _Maybe I should have been a comedian._

“Heh, sorry. Considering the cost of stitches, I can’t say that I’m too eager to do you any favours.” 

Fair enough, Therion supposed. 

Fair fucking enough. 


	2. Unexpected Altruism

Therion awoke differently than usual. 

Even if not startled awake, waking up was normally still a fairly quick affair. Consciousness returned to a sleeping person like sunlight filtering through a window, or like the light scent of food cooking. Or, in less pleasant situations, like being kicked in the stomach, maybe, or splashed with a cupful of water.

This time wasn't like any of those things. 

It was dull, dim, like a person floating up from the seabed. A slow, gradual ascent, starting in the silt and weeds at the bottom and rising towards the faintest light and warmth above. Every part of his body felt heavy and unresponsive. One by one, his senses started to return, starting with pain.

Boy, was he in a lot of pain. 

Vaguely, somewhere in his sluggish brain, he wondered if he had died. Surely death would be a little more merciful than this, wouldn't it? Despite everything he'd been through, he wasn't an expert on the afterlife, so he wasn't too sure of what it was supposed to feel like. At the very least, he was fairly sure that it wasn't supposed to hurt. 

Unless he was in hell, that is, but Therion wasn't certain if he was evil enough to be sent there upon dying. 

Was he?

A crackling, popping noise filtered into his range of hearing, and he recognised it as fire. Hell was supposedly filled with fire, wasn't it...?

Therion, deep within his sludge-filled brain, actually started to worry a bit. 

But, a new sound followed, and some of his fears dissipated. Chances were fairly high that nobody in a hell of any kind would be whistling a common Riverlands folk tune. 

That being said, who on earth could _that_ possibly be? After all, Therion had been travelling alone. He always did, now. 

He finally opened his eyes, and found a thin canopy of trees overhead. It appeared to be evening (or perhaps early morning?), and the golden light of a campfire illuminated the nearest trunks. Occasionally, a spark would drift upwards in a lazy arc before flickering from his sight. 

The whistling continued from somewhere at his feet. Someone was over by the fire, by what he could tell. 

His curiosity got the better of him, and he carefully peered down the length of his body. Someone had bundled him up in a woolen blanket and placed him on a padded mat and pillow, and he could see the form of a young man on the other side of the fire. He contentedly tended to a pot over the flames, whistling the entire time. Therion could somehow tell, even just from looking, that he was a backwoods sort of person. Small-town. 

_A fucking bumpkin._

Though, bumpkin or not, Therion didn't miss the green apothecary's mantle he was wearing. What a bizarre stroke of luck, that he'd be found by a wandering apothecary. He thanked Aeber for this rare kindness, if a strange one. 

The apothecary glanced up at him and noticed that he had awoken. He nearly dropped his spoon from surprise, abruptly ceasing his whistling. He recovered quickly, however, his startled expression replaced instead by a smile that was downright radiant, if the slightest touch shy. Therion wasn't really accustomed to being looked at with such joy, especially by a stranger, and he shifted awkwardly. He felt distinctly vulnerable under his gaze, confused and wary.

“Heya! Good evenin',” the man greeted, and Therion's assumptions of him being a country type were proven correct. “It's so nice to see you finally awake! You were in pretty poor condition by the time I stumbled across ya. Truth be told, I wasn't too sure just how you'd recover, so I'm pleased as punch to see that ya managed to pull through.” 

So he was the talkative type. Therion let out a small sigh. _Great._

“Where...... am I...?” he rasped. His voice came out like sandpaper, and he cringed at the sound. 

“Where? Oh, we're still in the Flatlands. Not too terribly far from where I found ya. We're just in a patch of woods a few minutes off the path, so we shouldn't get jumped by more a’ them bandits.”

_Bandits, right._ There had been bandits, before he fell unconscious. Highwaymen, hooligans, whatever they were. Whatever. All he knew was that one of them poisoned him, and that he ended up puking shortly after that. Then he threw up again, and again, and again. Even when there was nothing left, it didn’t stop. 

“How long... have I been here...?” he asked, trying to swallow whatever dregs of spit were left in his mouth. His throat was so dry it felt like it would split open. 

“I found ya... oh, right about two hours ago?” replied the apothecary, tapping his cheek as he thought. “Give or take.” 

Yet it definitely wasn’t evening when Therion was assaulted. He wondered just how long he had been lying there alone in the field, incapacitated and barely conscious. 

Considering that, it was even more miraculous that he had survived long enough for this apothecary to find him in the first place. The Flatlands themselves were not overly dangerous, but the monsters and creatures that roamed the fields certainly could be, especially to a person unable to even crawl away. The fact that he hadn’t been eaten by animals or toyed with by crueler humans was a blessing in itself.

Well, toyed with beyond what had already happened, but that was besides the point.

Under the covers, Therion carefully touched his arm. It was wrapped in a bandage, but a series of small, rigid protrusions could still be felt along the center of the wound. The apothecary had already stitched it up for him, which he was grateful for. Getting stitches while asleep was a rare luxury, thief or not.

“... What was I.... poisoned with...?” Therion asked, and the apothecary’s friendly smile dropped. His expression actually looked a touch somber. Was it that bad?

“You were poisoned with a lil’ somethin’ called falselily.” 

“... Falselily,” Therion repeated, turning the word over in his head. He hadn’t heard of it. 

“That’s it. As you’ve probably gathered, it’s a flower that looks somethin’ like a lily, but isn’t. In this case, it looks an awful lot like lily-of-the-valley... which, ironically, isn’t an actual lily, either, heheh.” 

Therion grunted. Gods, but he was talkative. 

“But anyways, you could say that falselily creates one of the most aggressive flower-based poisons you can make. I’m lucky I found ya when I did.” 

Therion considered his words, nodding slowly. He was lucky. Most people in situations like him (alone, dying of poison, stuck between towns) wouldn’t be able to say the same.... especially those with a godsdamned _fool’s bangle_ on their wrist. 

Therion didn’t know whether the bumpkin had noticed it or not, or even if he would be aware of what it signified. At the very least, he must have seen it, since the wound he had stitched was just above it. He supposed that he simply must not have known what it meant, since he hadn’t just left him to die upon seeing it. 

_So he’s either naive or stupid..._ thought Therion, sighing to himself. _Or both._

“... So, since you figured out what it was, you’ve cured me.” Therion supposed, and the apothecary’s lips pressed into a line.

“See, I don't know about that.” he sighed, smiling ruefully. “This particular poison’s kind of a doozy. Even though I've treated you, you ain't outta the woods just yet.” 

Therion scowled. “What are you talking about?” 

“Well, it'll linger in your system for a week, give or take. To cure falselily poisoning, you have to drink a dose of crimsonberry panacea for each of those seven days.” 

_Great._ Therion heaved a great sigh. “... And what, in theory, would happen if I didn't?” 

The apothecary's eyebrow rose, as if asking _You aren't actually considering that, are you...?._

“Weeell, it's not much fun...” he said, slowly. “The symptoms start with severe nausea and vomiting... as you know already. That’ll end up dehydrating you, givin’ you a massive headache and dizziness. Then, after that, you’ll develop a fever and tremors. Most people lose the ability to walk at that point. Delirium, hallucinations, and an abnormally low heart rate come after. Most people pass out by then, like you did. Sometimes seizures follow. After that, respiratory failure and a coma... and then, you'll die.” 

_Grand._ Therion's scowl deepened. _Why couldn’t it have just been something that makes me puke once a day, or something equally tolerable...?_

“Look. Unlike you, I don't have _time_ to sit around here for a week.” he said, as coldly as possible. “Just sell me some of the cure and I'll be on my way, alright?” 

The apothecary seemed baffled, and just a touch embarrassed. “Ah, well... it ain't that simple, I'm afraid.” 

_Of course it isn't._ “And... why might that be...?” 

“See, the thing with crimsonberry is that it's real fickle. It doesn't hold up well over time. I can't prepare it in advance, since the medicinal properties only last for about an hour or two after extraction, mainly due to oxidation. Doesn't matter how you store it, or what you mix it with. Once it's prepared, the clock's tickin'. So, sure, I could give ya some, but it sure as hell ain't gonna last long enough to help you.” 

Therion felt like banging his head against a wall. “Wonderful. Great. Awesome,” he groaned, silently cursing every god who dared to laugh at his situation. “... What about this? I'm no apothecary, but could you _show_ me how to make it? So I can get on the road again?” 

Normally, he'd only be too happy to oblige. However, as ever, it wasn't quite that simple. “I'd love to, but there's a couple of things wrong with your proposition.”

_Oh, sure there are._ “Pray tell me what.” he replied, flatly.

“Firstly, true crimsonberry is tough to come across. It looks an awful lot like a bunch’ve other plants around here, some of which are toxic.” he said, counting off his fingers. “Secondly, it's not the easiest plant to prepare. You've gotta prepare it in a way so that you just get the juices and pulp out, rather than just mashin' it all up, since the seeds are highly toxic. Thirdly, this particular medicine needs no less than six ingredients... and the majority of them ain't from here. I have ‘em, obviously, but you might not know where to get them, or what to do with them. ... I could list off a few more, but I'm gettin’ the feeling that you've got the point.” 

_Loud and clear._ “Mhm.” 

The apothecary looked at his expression for a moment longer, smiling faintly. Therion tried to glare, but he looked away before he could make him falter. _Damn it._

“I know,” he sighed, sitting back on his haunches. “This is probably the last thing you wanna be doing right now. And... I'm sure you're none too pleased about havin’ to hang around with some guy ya don't even know. I get it.” 

The fact that he was aware that Therion wasn't happy did, for whatever reason, take away some of his anger. For all of his irritating cheeriness, he was definitely a lot more charming than Therion had anticipated. All country-boy kindness, and all that. 

That, or he was just too fucking tired to be especially combative.

“Since it's kind've obvious that you'd rather be off on your way again, I honestly do feel bad about this whole thing. Really.” he continued, still in that kindly, awkward tone. “But, um, if you're feelin’ better by tomorrow morning, we can start headin’ off to wherever you're tryin’ to go, if ya want. Though I'll have to be there to make the medicine for ya. Sorry.” 

He wasn't quite meek, but his apology was surprisingly genuine. It, too, somehow abated the excess frustration in Therion's heart. So, he just sighed. It was a small, worn-out sound, and Therion became even more aware of his exhaustion. Apparently this poison had taken a more severe toll on his body than he thought.

It was probably due to his tiredness, but the prospect of setting off tomorrow appealed to him... even with the presence of this scruffy bumpkin. 

“... That... could work, I guess.” _If I absolutely have to._

The man's eyebrows rose, a smile creeping back into his face. For whatever reason, he seemed somewhat enthusiastic about it. “Yeah? That's good to hear! Sorry, again, that there isn’t really a lot else I can do for ya. Those men that attacked you... They must’ve been pretty damn determined to put ya to sleep, heh.” 

Therion nodded, pressing a hand on his temple. His headache had lessened, but it still hurt enough to be unpleasant. “Guess so.” 

The apothecary’s sunny smile returned. “Anyways, I can see you’re still not feelin’ too good, so I made us some tea. This one’ll help with your headache.” 

Tea? Therion’s brain whispered _no_ , it could be dangerous, it could be spiked, it could kill him for good, but his body shouted _gods_ , yes _please_. He felt like shit. His mouth was desert-dry. His throat ached. Jolts of pain swept through his skull in time with his pulse, and the stitches on his arm stung when he moved. Not his best day. 

But, he knew that it wasn’t his worst day. Nowhere near his worst. 

While the apothecary busied himself with pouring a couple of cups of tea, Therion forced himself to sit up. His muscles ached something awful, but at least he could move them again. Still, though, he would have assumed that somebody had beat him with a lead pipe while he was blacked out by the sensation alone. 

The man turned to look at him again, and gave a surprised grin.

“Whoa, hey, look at you! You’re pretty tough to be sittin’ up in this state,” he praised, passing one of the cups over. Therion took it in silence, examining the contents with a mildly skeptical frown. Various herbs and spices could be seen settled at the bottom. Admittedly, it smelled nice, whatever it was. 

“It's an herbal blend,” the apothecary explained, blowing on his own cup. “Good for headaches and muscle pain. I added some ginger and a little bit of honey for your stomach. Figured you're probably still a bit nauseous.” 

He was, actually. Nowhere near the level that it was before, but it was just enough to make him uncomfortable. For a scruffy backwoods bloke, he was surprisingly perceptive. Though, he _was_ an apothecary. Therion supposed that most healers had to be naturally in-tune with how other people were feeling. Empathy, or something like that.

He mirrored the other man, blowing silently on the curls of steam to cool it. He was still unsure whether or not he would actually drink it, but he felt as if he was losing the battle against his thirst. He hadn't eaten or drank anything since before the vomiting started, and that was, at the very least, six hours ago.

Finally, the apothecary deemed it cool enough to sample. He took a careful sip, and nodded approvingly to himself. Apparently it was drinkable. 

Therion stared at his cup for a while longer, suspicious, but his parched throat convinced him to hesitantly take the tiniest mouthful, letting it sit for a moment on his tongue. It tasted... surprisingly nice. A bit stronger than he expected, maybe. It didn't _seem_ tainted with anything, but Therion, admittedly, didn't really know what to look for. Either way, the apothecary was also drinking it, and he hadn't seen him slip anything into it, so he figured that it was probably fine. Probably. 

“Ya know, I never introduced myself, did I?” said the bumpkin, shoving a hand through his hair. What the fuck was _up_ with his hair, anyways...? “Sorry ‘bout that. Got a bit preoccupied, heheh. Anyways, I'm Alfyn Greengrass. An apothecary... though you probably guessed that a while ago. Nice to meet’cha!” 

He extended a hand, waiting for Therion to take it.

_Greengrass..._ thought Therion, wryly. _Even his name is backwoods._

A moment passed. Therion wasn't sure whether he ought to reply or not. After all, this guy was technically still a stranger. It's not like they were friends, or ever _would_ be, because Therion didn't need anyone else in his life. 

But, his earnest brown eyes waited patiently, brightly, nearly twinkling from anticipation. Was he really that interested in knowing? 

Apparently he was. Therion sighed quietly. _Fuck it._

“... Therion.” he replied, casting a reluctant glance at his hand. _And of course he wants to shake on it._

Therion wasn't really planning on it, but a tiny voice in the back of his head nagged him to use his manners. It sounded somewhat like his mother's, and a ripple of guilt ebbed through him. 

_It's the least you can do, Therion._

Just when Alfyn started to look a bit uncertain, Therion reached out and took it, if a little more briefly than most people might. Alfyn’s hand was large, warm, and surprisingly calloused. _Woodcutter’s calluses..._ thought Therion, noting the axe sitting by the fire. He definitely wasn't one to shirk his chores, by the feel of it.

“Well, Therion, I’m pleased to meet ya!” he greeted, giving a quick yet firm shake.

_Can't say the same, but alright._ “Mm.”

A satisfied Alfyn, mercifully, didn’t force him to engage in social niceties for much longer. He turned back towards the fire, nudging the logs with the butt of his axe. The wood popped as he did, casting a cloud of sparks upwards. Though it was somewhat hard to tell from his loose apothecary’s mantle, Therion got the sense that he was every bit as strong as his calluses suggested. 

Therion... wasn’t _weak_ , by any means, but he knew that he didn’t really have the advantage of size on his side. He was a little on the short side, small-framed, all wiry muscle and sharp-ended bones. Of course, as a thief, that served him well. He was like a mouse, slipping through the shadows and climbing over walls, deftly reaching into people's purses and ducking away without making a sound. In fact, it was a good thing that he _wasn’t_ built larger, since he had only managed to break into certain mansions by squeezing his way into the cracks of open windows, the likes of which even his old partner couldn’t.

_Don’t think about him._

He drank some more of the tea to take his mind off of things, off of _him_. While he might not have admitted it, the taste was growing on him. Ginger wasn’t a flavour that Therion had ever tried before, and he decided that though it was strong, he liked it. It probably had to do with how he had absolutely nothing in his system, though. 

“Is that cuff on your wrist annoyin’ you?” Alfyn asked, motioning towards the fool’s bangle. Thankfully, while he had noticed that Therion disliked wearing it, he didn’t seem aware of its significance. 

“Yup.” Therion replied, into his cup. It was annoying him quite a lot, in fact, but there wasn’t really much he could do about it. He couldn’t pick the lock with only one hand, and it wasn’t something that could be broken off. 

Even then, though, while it was tempting to try and prise it off of him somehow... it didn’t sit right with him. For all of his quirks, all of his bad habits and snide words, he wasn’t a liar. If he made a promise, he would keep it... reluctant as he may be. 

Embarrassing as it may be.

“Want me to take a look at it?” 

“Nope.” 

Alfyn seemed a bit put off, but shrugged a moment after, taking another sip of his tea. “Well, alrighty then. Suit yourself. But let me know if you want a salve for it or somethin’. I’ve got lotsa those.” 

With that, he sat back on his bedroll, opening his bag and sorting through the contents. He eventually pulled out a little pocketknife. Compared to his axe, it was almost comically small in his hands. He then unfolded it and started delicately shredding a pile of roots at the end of his bedroll. Therion supposed that he had unearthed those while he was blacked out.

Therion lowered his cup, staring at him for a long moment. What was with this guy? Everything about him perplexed and annoyed him. In fact, everything about him was completely and utterly ridiculous. His accent was dumb, the likes of which Therion hadn’t really heard before. It was like a patchwork quilt, backwoodsy slang stitched with the rough, clipped sounds of a street scrapper. His hairstyle was stupid, all homemade hackjob and just a touch too long, tied into a silly little ponytail that was nearly too short to fit in its tie. His shoulders were too fucking broad to fit on such a narrow waist, and his hands were too large for cutting such fine slivers from those roots. He looked clumsy, rough-hewn, bright-eyed and naive, practically begging for the world to sweep in and break him like glass.

And, to top it all off, he was _patient_. So _godsdamned_ patient. 

Alfyn glanced up from his motions, smiling as he noticed that his patient was looking at him. _Fucking caught,_ Therion thought, averting his eyes down towards the roots instead. Really, what was _with_ that guy?? He didn’t have the right to smile that kindly. Not at a stranger, not at someone like _him._

“This is Noxroot. The area here’s full of it.” Alfyn explained, turning one of the roots over in his palm. It was dark as night, and was about as wide as a thumb. “It’s got a few beneficial properties to it. Helps with inflammation, slows bleedin’ if you make a poultice out of it, can help with coughs n' sore throats if boiled into tea.” 

It sounded useful. Therion nodded blankly, not bothering to verbally respond. This man seemed to feed off of other people’s talking, so he wondered if staying silent would deter him. 

No such luck, it seemed. Alfyn didn’t seem put off in the least that Therion didn’t reply, and continued chatting away, all while carefully shaving it down with the pocketknife. 

“‘Course, you can mix it with other things to change its properties. If you grind it with injurious seeds, it reacts pretty violently. Turns into a dust that will burn the skin somethin’ awful. However, if you use purifying seeds, it’ll react in a way that’ll negate the effects of certain poisons in the body. And no— this doesn’t work on what you were poisoned with.” he added, watching Therion’s brow pinch. “If it did, I promise I woulda used it by now.” 

“Would you? Seems like a convenient way to make money, you know.” Therion replied flatly, his tone just a touch accusatory. Rile him up, see what happens. Perhaps not the smartest thing to do when the person in question had an axe lying next to him, but Therion couldn’t help it.

“Money?” repeated Alfyn, glancing up from his root-whittling. 

“Well, yeah. You know, you keep me around for a week, making medicine that’s probably worth a lot for each of those days... Didn’t you say that this particular concoction’s hard to make? Can’t imagine that that’d run too cheap.” 

Alfyn looked at him with an expression so incredulous that Therion wondered if he’d suddenly started speaking a new language. He actually set his knife down on his knee, eyebrows raised in perfect little arcs. Therion, for whatever reason, almost felt the urge to laugh. Did he really say something so bizarre?

“Shucks, Therion... I think you’ve got the wrong idea there, bud.” 

_Bud?_ “We’re not...” he sighed, then dropped it, too tired to fight much more than that. “... N-nevermind. What do you mean I’ve got the wrong idea?” 

“I don’t do this for the money.” Alfyn replied, simply. 

Now, it was Therion’s turn to stare at him. “You... don’t do it for money.” 

At the very least, he seemed aware that it was a pretty shocking thing to say. Alfyn just laughed lightly, picking up his knife again. He resumed shaving out the slightest little tendrils of the root, each one perfectly consistent from the last. “Nope. Might be kinda surprising, especially in this day n’ age, where there’s definitely no dwindlin’ demand for apothecaries and healers, but... chargin’ people for curin’ them just feels wrong to me.” 

“Why? You don’t look rich or anything. You probably need the money,” Therion pointed out, pulling a laugh from the apothecary. 

“Oh, you’re not really wrong there. I don’t have an awful lot to my name, that’s for sure. But... I don’t know, nobody _wants_ to get sick. Did you want to get poisoned?” 

Even if he did, for whatever reason, throwing up seven times and then collapsing changed his mind awfully quick. “Obviously not.” 

Alfyn nodded at his response. “No, of course not. So, after endurin’ what you went through, it would probably feel kinda like a real kick to the nuts for me to fix you up only to slap a fat medical fee on ya. So I try not to. Makes me feel like I’m takin’ advantage of people.” 

_He’s.... eloquent, that’s for sure._ “It’s still... _work_ , though.” Therion complained, not fully understanding his stance. Sure, it was the noble thing to do, he supposed, but as a (poor) thief, it didn’t make a lot of sense to him. 

“What, you think I don’t know that?” Alfyn asked, teasingly, moving on to the next root. “It’s a _lot_ of work. People are tough to heal. People are mean when they’re injured. Concocting is a confusing science. As a job... it’s pretty damn unforgiving. But I enjoy it, so I do it.” 

“For free.” Therion supplied, still skeptical.

“Yup.”

There was a moment of silence. Therion turned the thought over and over in his head, trying to find where he was coming from.

Eventually, Alfyn finished that root and moved on to the next one, smiling nostalgically. “My life was saved once, you know, when I was real young.” he recounted, carefully peeling the outer skin off with the blade. “I was probably about five... maybe six years old. There was a pretty bad epidemic going around. The Great Pestilence, I think. ... Not the most original name, but what can ya do. Anyways, there was a travelin’ apothecary that came through town. He heard I was sick and came to my house with medicine. I was in pretty rough shape. Spittin’ up blood, shakin’ like a leaf, unable to stand, or even really speak. Practically on death’s door. But his medicine ended up savin’ my life. Never learned his name, and he never asked my family for a single leaf. It was just the right thing to do, he said. So, while I guess it isn’t really the most _sustainable_ way to go about life, it still... I dunno, it feels right to me.” Alfyn concluded, pulling a vial from his bag. It seemed to contain slivers similar to what he had just made. 

“.... You’re an idiot.” Therion replied, under his breath. Seems he wasn’t quiet enough, though, because Alfyn chuckled, popping the cork on the vial. 

“Oh, I know. Can’t say I really blame you for saying that.” he replied, delicately placing the Noxroot slivers in the vial. “But, even so, it’s what I choose to do. ... Really, I don’t see why you’re complainin’. It suits you just fine that I don’t charge anything, right?” He corked the vial and set it back in his bag, smiling. “Unless you’re concerned about me, heheh.” 

“No, I’m _concerned_ that you’ll try to abuse this. Like, you’re not looking for repayment in leaves, so you’re looking for something else from me.” Therion snapped, defensively. 

Alfyn’s smile dropped, replaced again with surprise. “Now just what sorta person do you take me for?” he asked, tilting his head. “I don’t know what kinda people you’ve met, but I promise I’m not that kinda person, alright?” 

“And how do I know that?” Therion demanded, crossing his arms. He was aware that he probably looked like an angry little kid, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was too tired and too sore to crawl over and try to fight him, or anything equally extreme. 

“Well... you don’t.” Alfyn replied, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t have any way to prove it at the moment, I guess. All you can really do right now is just... trust me a little.” 

“That’s an awful lot to ask of someone you’ve just met, don’t you think?” Therion countered. 

“It is, I know. But hey, I trust _you_ , at least.” 

“You... That’s a pretty stupid thing to do. You don’t even know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of. I have weapons.” Well, not anymore, but whatever.

“Well, so far, I know you’re capable of pukin’ and crawlin’.” Alfyn replied, sounding a touch exasperated for the first time all evening. “And mouthin’ me off, but I guess I can’t really fault you for that, considerin’. Besides, I actually returned your weapons to you myself. Those were stolen from you by those highwaymen that accosted you. You’re welcome.” 

_Ooh, Mister Sunshine can get snippy too._ Therion’s mean smile dropped as he mentioned that he had given his weapons back to him. He looked down and found his dagger strapped securely to his leg, just as it always was. His sword, too, was still in its scabbard, sitting on the side of his bedroll. 

“You... stole them back?” he asked, disbelievingly. _Also, how in the world did he find those men in the first place??_

“Sort of. I overheard ‘em laughin’ in the tavern about what they did to ya. Guess the mead ended up loosenin’ their tongues a bit more than they expected, heheh.” 

_Guess that explains how he found me._ “Okay, so... how’d you convince them to return the weapons?” 

Alfyn motioned towards his axe, smiling roguishly. 

_Ah._ Therion doubted that he would have straight-up _attacked_ them in the alehouse, but threats didn’t really seem beyond this guy. Kind as he seemed, Therion got the sense that he was somewhat used to tangling with others. If he was truly as strong as he looked, four very drunk blokes probably wouldn’t have been much of an issue for him.

While that was good news for his weapons, Therion still wasn’t completely satisfied. “How do I know I’m not going to wake up to find that axe buried in my skull?” he asked, watching Alfyn’s shoulders droop in a sigh. He was patient, but he wasn’t superhuman.

“Firstly,” Alfyn said, counting out each point on his fingers. “You wouldn’t wake up from somethin’ like that, because you’d probably be pretty damned dead. Secondly, I’d be a shit apothecary if I went around killin’ my patients. Kinda defeats the purpose. Thirdly, I already spent time makin’ that first dose of panacea for you, so it’d be a bit counterproductive for me to end up murderin’ you, don’t’cha think?”

Of course, it all made perfect sense, and Therion knew it. He wasn’t being paranoid for fun, however, and it was very difficult to switch off the part of his brain that was convinced that this strangely kind man would try to dispose of him while he slept, or else would try and extort some other sort of repayment from him. 

But, Therion looked into his brown eyes and found nothing. No guile, no hidden agendas. Tiredness, maybe. It was getting late, and he had been working on him for quite some time, by the sound of it. 

And fuck it all if he wasn’t tired too. He was the one who almost died, after all. 

“... I guess.” Therion simply said, setting his empty cup off to the side. He was _so_ tired, now that he thought about it. _Bastard didn't put sleepweed in this, did he...??_

Alfyn nodded, smiling again. “That's what I thought. Now be a good patient and get some sleep, alright? You're gonna need a lot of it to flush the poison out.”

While there was still a fraction of his brain that was essentially banging pots and pans together to keep him awake and alert, overall, Therion felt like he might actually die if he didn't get to sleep in the next hour. His achy muscles became lead and dragged him down into the blanket. _Fuck it._ If he died in his sleep, at least he would have been reasonably comfortable.

He thought about asking Alfyn to chop off the hand with the fool’s bangle on it after he killed him, so nobody else would know, but he didn’t end up saying it. Too tired.

“There ya go. Good night, Therion.” Alfyn said, sounding satisfied for the first time in a while. “Wake me up if you need anything, you hear?” 

“Mm,” he replied, settling his head further on the pillow. _I'd rather just sleep, but thanks._

Lulled by his body’s exhaustion and the soft, soothing crackle of the fire, Therion promptly fell back into a deep sleep. 

On his own bedroll, Alfyn observed him in a thoughtful silence. _What a strange patient I’ve gotten myself..._ he thought, exhaling. He was acerbic, that was true. Harsh, defensive, viciously sarcastic. Normally, Alfyn didn't really love people like that, and tried his damnedest to avoid interacting with them more than he absolutely had to. 

And yet, for some reason, he didn't dislike Therion. He couldn’t _make_ himself dislike him. Prickly as he was, he seemed... interesting.

After all, people weren't that closed off for fun. Something must have happened to him, scarred his heart and shut it away. 

And besides that, he was his patient. No matter how miserable of a person they were, far be it from any proper apothecary to abandon their patient. 

He smiled. _Just you wait, Therion. I'll fix you up for good... whether you like it or not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here he is... my sunshine boy.   
> I'm not done writing all of this fic, but several chapters (in no particular order) are either done or close to being done. I'll try to update this as frequently as possible, but I don't have a set schedule in mind yet, I'm afraid...  
> my twitter is @courtcourtdraws if you want to check out my other stuff (or talk to me!! I promise I don't bite!)  
> Thanks for reading!!


	3. A Slightly Larger Group

Morning came in an uneventful blur, and Therion awoke in a cold sweat. Echoes of a familiar dream ( _not a dream, a godsdamned nightmare_ ) faded away once he saw the trees and felt the leaves crunching beneath his bedroll. 

_Calm down. You're already on the ground, and this isn’t the Cliftlands._

He sucked in a breath, held it, released it with a hiss. _You're still alive._

_Like you somehow always are._

He laid still for a while longer, letting his body ease into being awake. There was a terrible weakness in his stomach that felt as if it would get much, _much_ worse if he got up, so he didn't. His muscles were stiff, but not as achy as yesterday. A dull throbbing could be felt whenever he turned his arm, right along the stitches, but it felt much better than if he'd tried to patch himself up. As far as he could tell, he could move his limbs just fine. A good sign. 

A light wind hissed through the treetops. Unfamiliar birds sang overhead. The staccato ringing of a woodpecker droned through the forest. Definitely not the Cliftlands. 

Inhale, exhale. Therion shifted, and his stomach did a flip. He grit his teeth, feeling a cold sweat ooze from every pore. _Bad idea. Bad idea._

He laid very still again, waiting for the nausea to pass. Whatever uncertainty he held before towards that damned hick apothecary’s diagnosis dissipated. Seems it really would persist, despite initial treatment. _Fuck._

Speaking of hicks, where _was_ he? Therion realized just then that the campsite was awfully quiet. Had he gotten up, wandered off? Left him behind? 

He scowled. Being joined at the hip to Alfyn was irritating enough, but the thought of potentially being abandoned by him irked him worse, for whatever reason. 

He could stand it no longer. His curiosity got the better of him, and he gingerly sat up. 

In the grey daylight, he could see the camp in its entirety. It was rudimentary, with a spot for a campfire and their bedrolls. The ground had been quickly swept of debris, aside from various herbs and plants set into organized piles. Near that, Alfyn's belongings. And, finally, Alfyn himself, curled up under his blanket, sleeping away. 

_Oh, he's a layabout..._ thought Therion, rolling his eyes. _Why am I not surprised._

For whatever reason, he had somehow expected that Alfyn would snore. Surprisingly enough, however, he didn't. He was almost eerily silent, locked in a deep sleep. How late had he stayed up? Later than Therion, certainly. _Lazy oaf._

Therion's eyes then fell to his satchel, lying unattended by his side. His fingers practically itched to check its contents, to see if he had anything of value. Apothecaries weren't really known for carrying valuables, no, but it was worth looking... just to make sure. Right?

Therion flicked his gaze back up towards the owner of the satchel. His breaths were slow, even, and his face was peaceful. Sleeping, definitely.

He wouldn’t know if he took a peek. He was a master thief. 

With that, Therion silently crept over and examined the latch on the bag. It wasn’t anything fancy. Just a simple buckle. He could undo it in half a second. 

Therion reached for the bag, and a second, stronger wave of nausea slammed into him. Last time was bad, but this time was so intense that his body crunched like a twig, stomach spasming. His mouth filled with saliva, and he crawled off a good ten feet from the site, coughing and retching out a watery bile into the bushes.

When that was over and done with, he carefully made his way back to his bedroll. Fuck it. Snooping could come at another time, when he was less likely to puke all over his target. 

His decision to avoid getting any quantity of stomach contents on Alfyn wasn't because he had any particular qualms with making the bumpkin's life a little more difficult ( _because, seriously, what kind of person was always that fucking positive??_ ). Rather, it was more due to him not knowing exactly how far he could push him before he got fed up and left him for dead. He was a gentle soul, as far as he could tell, but he didn’t really need to test that right then.

Therion knew that even the kindest person could kill, if needed. And indirectly killing someone by abandoning them was infinitely easier than bloodying one’s own hands.

Right when Therion started to think about throwing pebbles at him, he stirred. His expression shifted gently, brows pinching as he awoke. 

With a small stretch, he opened his eyes, blearily focusing on Therion a moment after. 

“Oh,” he drawled, around a yawn. “Good mornin’. Sleep okay?” 

“Sure. Slept great, until I threw up.” Therion replied, coolly. 

That seemed to wake Alfyn up a bit faster. His eyes widened a touch from concern, and he sat up with an ungraceful grunt. His hair was untied and somehow messier than usual, and Therion scowled at at. The ponytail was bad, but this was just disgraceful.

“You did? When did that happen?” he asked, glancing around the site. 

Therion snorted at the sight. He wasn’t so barbaric as to puke right next to his bed, if he could help it. “It’s over there,” he clarified, gesturing loosely into the bushes. “... And I guess about fifteen minutes ago.” 

“Hmm, okay. I wonder if your case’ll be more persistent in the morning...? Anyways, lemme get up and make some medicine for ya.”

With that, he stood up and pulled his arms high over his head, arching his back in a deep stretch. Therion noted that he had shed his mantle and vest, leaving him in just his shirt and pants. Thanks to the daylight, he got a much better idea of Alfyn’s physique, and he scowled at what he could see through the loose edges of his shirt. Larger and stronger than him by far. _Great. And of course he's fucking tall._

“How are ya feelin’ otherwise?” he asked, tugging a comb through his hair. “Any aches or pains? Headache?” 

“Oh... you know. Peachy,” Therion grumbled. He was vaguely surprised that Alfyn even owned a comb, let alone used one.

Alfyn hummed at his words, tying his hair back into that stupid little ponytail. “Well, now. Can't help you too easy if you won't tell me exactly what's wrong.”

“.... Mhm.” 

Alfyn sighed, hands on hips. “So I'll hazard a guess. Your muscles are achin', but not as bad as yesterday. Your joints hurt, and you've probably got a headache. Your stitches ain't feelin’ great. You're nauseous as all hells.... and you're eagerly awaitin’ for me to shut my mouth and start workin’ on your medicine.”

“... Huh. You're pretty good,” Therion said, sarcastically.

“Shucks, I try.” 

With that out of the way, Alfyn stacked some new kindling on the fire pit. While he muttered something about a flint, rifling through his bag, Therion rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, effortlessly throwing a spark onto the wood.

“Oh!” exclaimed Alfyn, ceasing his search. “You know fire magic?” 

_Gee, I wonder._ Therion looked pointedly towards the fire, then back at him. “Could be.” 

“That’s awesome! I never got the hang of fire, myself. I’ve got a good handle on ice, though.” 

_Ice magic, huh?_ Therion found it strange that a backwoods apothecary, of all people, would know an elemental magic skill. Most people were _capable_ of learning, sure, but even then. Why ice? 

“You look kinda confused,” observed Alfyn. Now that the fire was taken care of, he was busying himself with dropping fistfuls of dried flowers into the pot. “D’you find it weird that I like usin’ ice magic?” 

Therion gave a halfhearted shrug. “.... As I see it, ice isn’t as useful.” 

Alfyn nodded as he held his hands out and steepled his fingers. In the space between his palms, a crystalline structure formed, growing until it was a little larger than his fist. He then dropped it in the pot to melt. 

“Maybe not, no.” he admitted. “Ice isn’t really as destructive, or as versatile. I could probably hurt someone pretty bad with it, but I don’t know how to make it cover a wider range. Now, havin’ said that, I like it ‘cause of its other uses. Like here—” he gestured towards the pot as he said this. “—it’s real convenient, since I didn’t have to go find a stream or anythin’ for water. Even then, if I did, I’d have to boil the water before it was drinkable. Y’know. Contaminants and all.” 

Therion supposed that that would be useful. He’d definitely made the mistake of drinking iffy water before. 

“It’s also surprisingly handy, as an apothecary. Cold helps with swellin’, or inflammation, or burns... Even just as a simple pain relief.” 

He put a cover on the pot, leaving a small crack for steam to escape. 

“It's also just nice to be able to make it whenever I want. Ice isn’t always available, dependin’ on the time of the year. I mean, maybe in the Frostlands or somethin’ it might be, but.... Anyways. It’s a lifesaver in the middle of summer, I’ve gotta say.” 

_And fire’s good for when you don’t have a place to stay,_ thought Therion. _Keeps you warm, keeps you fed, keeps you safe._ For a wanderer, fire was infinitely useful, and could easily make the difference between surviving the night or dying of hypothermia. 

Versatility aside, fire was also generally considered to be an art that was easy to learn, and very difficult to master. By nature, it was a very aggressive type of magic. A surge in the caster's emotions could cause it to rage wildly out of control, or for it to jump onto things that weren't intended to be burned. Fire could easily save your life, but it could kill you just as easily.

Ice, on the other hand, wasn't really like that. To shape ice, the caster needed to be focused. Patient. Careful. Ice could fracture and explode with a shift in focus, or collapse into slush without enough dedication. It could grow into delicate slivers or soften into a harmless round. Fire was dangerous by default. It needed to be controlled to keep it from causing unnecessary destruction. Ice, however, wasn't. It had to be encouraged into causing harm. 

So, maybe it made sense that Alfyn would have an affinity for a naturally harmless type of magic. Unlike Therion, his default wasn't dangerous.

Therion turned his attention to watch him carefully split apart some berries with the tip of his pocketknife. His eyes were scalpel-sharp, focused, as if he were conducting a surgery rather than just cutting fruit. Therion supposed that those would be the crimsonberries he had mentioned yesterday. They were extremely unremarkable-looking, slightly larger than a cranberry and a darker shade of red than one. The skin was smooth and tough, almost more like a rind, and the translucent flesh inside was a similar colour to a strawberry. Nestled in the very center was a small white seed, which Alfyn dug out and flicked away. Then, the tip of the knife meticulously picked out all of the contents and dropped them into the mortar. The skins were then discarded. He did this to several more of the berries, then went to check the contents of the pot. A large cloud of steam escaped as he took the cover off, and Therion could hear the sound of something simmering within. The air smelled slightly sweet.

Apparently Alfyn was satisfied, as he took the pot off and set it aside. He then pulled a bottle from his bag and put it in front of him. It had a small amount of an indigo liquid sitting at the bottom. It almost looked like ink, and Therion stared at it, interested.

“Since we're here, I figured I'd make more witch's brew,” Alfyn explained, placing a sieve over the mouth if the bottle. “I'll be needing it for the upcomin’ series of doses for ya.” 

“... Witch's brew?” repeated Therion, brow crinkling. 

“Oh, right, yeah. Guess that's not a common term. It's the extract of witch's flower,” he clarified, carefully straining the contents into the bottle. “It's unusual since most floral extracts and juices are pale, or even clear. But witch's flower makes a _real_ dark juice. It looks sinister, but it actually tastes pretty mild.” 

At that moment, Therion's stomach churned unpleasantly. He sat deathly still to combat it, glaring at Alfyn's slow pouring. “... Y-you couldn't have done that yesterday, while I was out?”

His tone was uncomfortable. Alfyn glanced up for a second, expression apologetic. “Well... you're right, I guess I could've, but I had to make sure it was worth it before I did. These flowers aren't too common, and they don't store for much longer than a month like this.” 

“Well... _was_ it worth it?” _Was **I** worth it?_

“I mean that I had to make sure that you'd actually survive.” Alfyn said, softly. “Like I said yesterday, I was amazed that you pulled through. Falselily is brutal, and at the stage you were at... Well, let's just say that even though I treated you, your odds of _actually_ survivin’ were awful slim.” 

Therion didn't reply.

“And you know what?” Alfyn continued, discarding the boiled flowers. He added a couple of other ingredients to the mortar and started grinding them with a pestle. “It _is_ worth it. You're an interesting guy, Therion. Maybe a prickly guy, but still.”

“Glad _one_ of us is interesting,” Therion muttered, and Alfyn laughed, shaking his head.

“Ooh, how mean,” he said, not sounding hurt in the slightest. “I promise I'm not _that_ boring, once ya get to know me. Least, that's what I'm told. I like to think so, anyways.”

_I’m not supposed to get to know you, though..._

Alfyn took out an empty bottle and scraped the contents of the mortar into it. He then added some of the fresh extract, along with liquids from two other bottles, and carefully swirled all of it together. The end concoction, surprisingly, turned a beautiful and vivid shade of red before their eyes. 

“Heheh, bet you weren't expectin’ _that_ , huh?” quipped Alfyn, passing the bottle over. “I'd explain why it does that to ya, if you were interested... but I'm gonna take a wild guess and presume you're not.” 

“Now you're getting it,” muttered Therion, cautiously accepting the bottle. “... This is what you gave me yesterday?”

“Sure is. Just to warn ya, it’ll be a bit sour.” 

He stared at the red liquid for a long, suspicious moment, drawing out a heaving sigh from Alfyn. 

“Lords in the _heavens_ , Therion,” he said, tiredly. “I _know_ you don't trust me all that much but I swear on my satchel that that's _exactly_ what I forced down your unconscious throat yesterday. I promise I'm tryin' to help you. If I wanted you dead, I've got about a hundred things that’d be cheaper and easier, axe included.” 

_Ooh, there's that temper_ , Therion thought, tamping down a smirk. It should have been illegal to make irritating him so much fun. But, to Therion, it was _his_ fault for being so damn carefree. Really, he was just teaching him a lesson. If someone came along and ruined his optimism, then, well... that's just the way the world worked. 

_People use people who aren't smart enough to notice that they're being used. That's just what they do._

_If it had to happen to me.... it'll definitely happen to you._

How couldn't it, with how wide-eyed and cheerful he always was? How couldn't it, when he didn't even bother accepting money for his services? How couldn't it, when he was naive enough to save the life of a _thief_?

Therion brought the bottle to his lips and drank it back. Like he said, it was tart, a touch dry, and he made a face. Alfyn laughed at the sight, taking the bottle back, and Therion knew. This dumb bastard would definitely get fucked over at some point, and if not by him, then by _someone_ , at least. 

And as Alfyn took out a wrapped pair of blueberry muffins and immediately offered him the larger one, he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this guy would crumble like snow under the weight of a betrayal. He'd be blindsided, no matter how many red flags there were. It would probably destroy him. His optimism would be torn out from the roots, and he would learn, one way or another.

And Therion, for whatever reason, almost disliked the thought. 

He was _starving_ , by that point, and that muffin, praise be to Aeber, looked like the most delicious fucking thing he had ever seen in his twenty-two years of life. Therion all but scarfed it down, pulling another laugh from Alfyn's chest. 

“Shucks, _somebody’s_ hungry,” he teased, tearing the other muffin in half. “If I’d known I’d find ya, I woulda brought more.”

He held it out for Therion to take, and he cast a puzzled glance at it. 

“....... What are you doing?”

“What’s it _look_ like I’m doin’, silly?”

Therion accepted the other half, though not without a pinprick of guilt. Whatever. Serves him right. If he keeled over from hunger while they were walking, he would know better next time. 

_That’s how I learned. Maybe that’s just how you’ll learn._

After that, little else happened. Alfyn checked Therion’s stitches, seeming satisfied at their progress. The panacea melted the nausea away completely, leaving Therion feeling something close to normal, and they decided to set off.

Overall, it didn’t take too long for them to get ready and pack up their things. Therion didn’t have much on hand, so he ended up done a fair bit before Alfyn was. Had this been a situation where his life _wasn’t_ dependent on Alfyn, he would have just left when he got bored, regardless of how close to being ready Alfyn was. And if he didn’t catch up to him, well, that was too bad for him. 

But, he was dependent on him. So he leaned against a tree and waited, trying not to calculate just how far he’d be by now if he didn’t have to stay with him.

Traveling with Alfyn, Therion found out, was unsurprisingly disorganized. He seemed to be a scatterbrain by nature, constantly breaking off the path to pick herbs and flowers, or pausing to greet (or even chat with, if he could help it) any friendly passerby. When he wasn't talking up every single godsdamned person they passed, he would pleasantly ramble on about the particular qualities of every plant that he harvested and their uses, veer off into anecdotes about his life back in Clearbrook, enthusiastically speculate about what he was going to see in Goldshore, and talk about a particular person ( _Zeph, I think_ ) with such a sickly-sweet fondness in his voice that it made Therion want to puke, poison or not. 

The worst part was that Therion was essentially trapped with him, unless he happened to stumble across another apothecary (and preferably one that was much less chatty). But, Therion also knew that no other apothecary would be as bizarrely charitable as this one, and while he didn’t really _love_ the constant background noise of Alfyn desperately trying to make friends with him, he didn’t really have the means (the leaves) to pay another, quieter guy to make the same cure for him. 

So, this would have to do. 

Therion sighed to himself. It was only another six days. That’s all. Just another six days of getting distracted by plants, by people, by asking about the weather and local businesses and directions and whatever else crossed his empty mind whenever he opened his mouth. Another six days of kind brown eyes, of offers to look at his arm and at his wrist, of lightly teasing words that almost, _almost_ tricked Therion into thinking that he’s known him for ages, rather than less than twenty-four hours. Just six more days of resisting the urge to throttle him, or leave him behind, or convincing him to go home. 

Just six more days. Then he could disappear, and forget all about him.

He had a strange effect, Therion noticed. Being a friendly guy, Alfyn often asked him questions, or tried to figure out his opinion on certain ideas. And while Therion tried to limit his responses to noncommittal grunts and uncaring shrugs, he almost forgot to do that, sometimes. He tried. He really did try. And yet, occasionally, Alfyn still managed to coax out a few words, or, if he was lucky, sometimes even a short sentence. And it wasn't just him. Even a good majority of the strangers he conversed with would loosen up after a couple of minutes, regardless of how surly they seemed initially. How did he do that? 

Therion had no idea. It just baffled him, regardless of how he thought of it.

“Why do you bother?” Therion asked, once they had parted ways with a passing merchant.

“Why do I bother doin’ what?” Alfyn wondered, tilting his head. 

“Talking to strangers. Why?”

Alfyn blinked, as if he really hadn't expected for Therion to ask such a question, and shrugged.

“Why not?”

“What do you mean ‘why not’?” Therion demanded, gesturing towards the merchant’s receding back. “It’s safer to mind your own business. Not everyone we’ll come across will be receptive to your little chitchats.”

"Safer?”

“Well, _yeah_ , idiot. There’s a surprising amount of bandits on the road out here, _in the real world_.” _And I would know **pretty fucking well** , so don't you dare protest this._

Alfyn’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile, which was decidedly the opposite sort of reaction that Therion wanted.

"What, and that merchant could’ve been one of them?”

“I don’t know, maybe?”

“Therion,” Alfyn said, suppressing laughter, “he was about seventy. I reckon a stiff breeze would flip him like a turtle.”

“That’s— Look. That’s not the point. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be so quick to trust everyone we pass by.”

Alfyn giggled, apparently completely unconcerned with the notion of potentially getting mugged. Therion hadn’t the slightest clue of whether he was just too naive to understand, or whether he was just overwhelmingly confident in his fighting abilities should things go sour. 

“Aww, what’s this? You worried about me? Huh?” he asked, trying to ruffle his hair, but Therion ducked away from his hand.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he nearly snarled, staying a few paces away from him. “And I’m not _worried_ about you. I just don’t want to have to play babysitter when some band of hooligans inevitably try to beat the shit out of you for getting too close.” 

Alfyn’s giggle bloomed into a full-blown laugh. “Babysit! I’m the one babysittin’ _you_ , ain’t I? Ol’ man Alfyn’ll keep ya safe, no worries,” he quipped, shooting him a wink, and Therion scowled. 

“.... Don’t make it sound like I’m some kid,” Therion groused, rolling his eyes.

Alfyn tilted his head. “Hm? Well... how old even are ya, anyways?”

“... Twenty-two,” Therion said, and Alfyn’s smile dropped.

“Y— Wait. You’re a year older than me?”

“You... you thought I was a _teenager_?!” 

Alfyn laughed nervously, cheeks turning red. “W-well! I, ah.... maybe? I mean you’re... kinda... short?” 

Therion looked for all the world like Alfyn had spat on him. That clearly wasn’t the right thing to say at all.

“Aw, hey, c’mon, I’m sorry...” Alfyn apologized, even as Therion turned away to walk ahead of him. “Shucks, Therion, that was awful rude a me...”

Therion muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _yeah, you fucking think??_

“Ah, shit, I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ dumb... I hope you can forgive me, Therion. It’s not like, y’know, you _chose_ to be short or anythin’... I mean, like, malnutrition’s pretty common, so—” 

“Shut up for a sec.”

Alfyn did. Therion’s head was turned to the side, listening.

Now that he had stopped talking, he could hear it, too. The grating croak of Froggens, and lots of them. 

“They sound close,” Therion muttered, carefully advancing along the path. His footsteps became much softer, barely disturbing the pebbles. Alfyn tried to mimic his gait, but the long-suffering glare Therion shot him spelled out just how poorly he was doing.

The two of them crept over a small hill, revealing the scene before them. Sure enough, there was a horde of three Froggens advancing upon a man. He didn’t seem especially panicked, considering the circumstances. 

“Oh, there’s someone over there!” Alfyn pointed out, prompting an eye-roll from Therion. 

“Yes, thank you, I can see that just fine.” 

“We should go talk to him, too. I bet he knows somethin’ real interestin’,” Alfyn commented, and Therion actually turned to look at him, mouth open from shock.

“Wh-what do you _mean_ ‘we should go talk to him’?!” Therion repeated, aghast. “Do you _really_ have to do that to _every single person_ you see traveling alone? Go up to them and bug them??”

Alfyn simply listened to his outburst with an amused smile, as if Therion was little more than a cranky child. Unsurprisingly, that didn't really do anything to improve his mood, and Therion cursed him for being so damn _friendly._

"As a matter of fact,” Alfyn said, once he was sure that Therion was done complaining. “yes, I do. More or less, anyways. You just never know what kind’ve information you can get from a simple chat.” 

“Alright, fine, but he looks a little _busy_ , don't you think?” Therion countered, pointing back towards the horde of monsters. 

“Sheesh, I wasn't meaning _right this second_.” Alfyn replied, rolling his eyes. “We can talk after he’s done dealin’ with ‘em. Or, better yet...” 

_Better yet?_ Therion had an idea of where the apothecary was going with this. Frankly, it didn't excite him too much.

Sure enough, Alfyn hefted his trusty axe, letting the back of it slap into his open palm. The message was pretty clear, but Therion shook his head firmly.

“No. We don't even _know_ this guy,” groused Therion, unable to comprehend why on earth this idiot apothecary was so eager to dive right into the fray. Did he _enjoy_ fighting? “Look at him. He's got a spell tome. I think he can take care of himself just fine.”

“Oh, probably, but we _could_ use a mage in our group...” 

_‘Our group’...?_ thought Therion, reeling. _Since when did this become a group??_ Really, two was too much, as far as he was concerned. Three, however, was _definitely_ an excessive amount of people. Besides, Therion already had the sense that this guy was a complete and utter prick, judging by his finely-embroidered clothing and elegant appearance. He probably had a shitty highborn accent and bathed in lavender oils every night before falling asleep in a feathered bed. In other words, he was exactly the kind of person that he hated. Maybe he'll dig through his pockets, see if he's got anything of value... but preferably nothing more than that, since he looked like a pompous ass, and _fuck that guy_.

Alfyn, of course, was the other kind of person he hated. An airheaded, scruffy bumpkin do-gooder set on bettering the world one poultice at at time, or some equally naive, goody-two-shoes shit like that. So, even with this new guy added in, the group would still be comprised of three people that Therion completely and utterly loathed. _Great._

“We _don’t_. I know fire magic. You know ice. We’re _good_ ,” Therion snapped, moving to turn away. Alfyn could help that guy all he wanted, for what he cared, but he wasn’t going to be a part of it. 

“Aw, c'mon, Therion!” Alfyn whined, reaching out to try and catch his shoulder. “Stop being such a —”

However, just before Alfyn’s fingers made contact, a bizarre sensation made them stop cold. The sky darkened around them. The hairs on Therion’s body all stood up at once, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. The air itself thrummed with energy, feeling somewhat cooler than it was moments ago. One glance at Alfyn’s face showed that he could feel it too, and seemed just as puzzled as he.

Their answer came a second later, with a noise so violently loud that they could feel it in their chests. A bolt of lightning burst from a cloud and seared the monsters to a crisp, rendering them to blackened, twitching husks in an instant.

“See?!” Alfyn enthused, pointing as if Therion hadn’t also watched what had just happened. “ _He knows lightning magic_.” 

That was, of course, something that would be very beneficial for them to have, but Therion only scoffed, rolling his eyes as dramatically as possible. 

“Wow. Good for him,” he drawled, flatly. _If he's so dead-set on adding someone to the party, then couldn’t we possibly find a **less** snooty-looking mage to drag along...??_

The snooty-looking mage, satisfied that the monsters were dead, snapped his tome shut and slid it into his bag.

“Okay, look. Now we’ve _gotta_ talk to him!” Alfyn declared, gesturing for Therion to follow. 

“We really _don’t_ , though...” came Therion’s voice, petulant and irritated, but Alfyn was determined. The apothecary simply winked and left, heading towards the elegant prick with the spell tome. _Fuck._

Of course, in more normal circumstances, this would have been the perfect opportunity for Therion to make a run for it in the _opposite_ direction, but, as it still hadn’t quite been seven days yet, he was left with little choice. He could either run and taste freedom for a short bit before dying miserably in a puddle of drool and vomit a couple of days later.... or bite his tongue and follow his medicine.

_Fuck my life. Fuck everything about my life._ Therion thought bitterly, trudging over back towards Alfyn, who had already struck up a conversation with the mage. _Fuck me. Fuck this._

By the time he caught up, they were talking as if they’d been friends since childhood, happily chattering away about sabbaticals and expeditions and sudden vacations and the like. Therion was less than thrilled that this new guy seemed to be just as talkative as Alfyn, and silently cursed the gods for taunting him so. _Why me? Why??_

“Ah, Therion!” Alfyn said, dragging him into the conversation. “So, this is Professor Albright! He’s a professor at the Royal Academy! Isn’t that cool?” 

“... Fancy,” he replied, in a tone that he hoped would convey exactly how little he cared. However, both of the other men didn’t seem to notice... or care themselves.

“Oh, dear me, please, don’t bother with all that nonsense,” the professor said towards Alfyn, waving a hand dismissively. “If you were a student of mine, I would allow you to refer to me that way, but as you are simply a traveler of equal footing to myself, just ‘Cyrus’ shall do. But yes, I am pleased to meet you, Therion. My name is Cyrus Albright. I am a professor and a scholar of the arts of magic, hoping to discover—” and then there were some other words, but Therion had stopped listening. Gods, he even _sounded_ like a complete bore.

With his introductory monologue complete, Cyrus reached out for a handshake with a dashing smile. Therion simply stared blandly at his extended hand, hoping to convey to this windbag professor exactly how displeased he was to have to interact with him. That is, until Alfyn nudged him _just_ a touch too firmly in the ribs, and Therion reluctantly took it. _Fuck all of this._

“So the two of you are off on a journey, yes?” Cyrus asked the both of them, smiling expectantly. Therion didn’t reply. Instead, he was busying himself with cursing how godsdamned _tall_ he was. Perhaps not as tall as Alfyn, but annoyingly close. _What’s with everyone being so fucking tall around here...??_

“That we are!” Alfyn replied, grinning. “Therion needs to stop by Noblecourt, and I’m hopin’ to eventually swing by Goldshore. If you’re headin’ that way, or if you just wanna stick with us for a lil’ while, then neither of us would mind if ya did!” 

“I mind,” Therion complained, but Alfyn jabbed him in the ribs again. Apparently he wasn’t supposed to mind.

“I’m actually intending to eventually pay a visit to a friend in Quarrycrest, myself, but I’m really, honestly in no great rush.” Cyrus replied, shrugging. “After all, I’m essentially taking the year off. In the meantime, I do think that going around with you two might be enjoyable. I _have_ been meaning to more thoroughly explore the realm of Orsterra for quite some time, after all.”

_Don’t, please._ Therion’s expression was downright miserable, but Alfyn looked overjoyed. Therion supposed that he couldn’t really blame him. He probably wasn’t the most fun company to have around, and Alfyn, while strangely unconcerned with Therion's lack of participation, would probably enjoy having another person around who would _willingly_ talk with him.

_Maybe... maybe bringing this prim, floral-scented ass along might be a good thing._ Perhaps not an enjoyable thing, per se, but a good thing. After all, Alfyn loved to talk, and Therion loved to ignore him. At least with this new person added in, Alfyn could talk with him, and Therion could happily ignore the two of them to his heart’s content. And that really was a good thing. He was only with Alfyn by necessity. 

Just like that, Alfyn and Cyrus started chattering away once more, and they began walking again, now as a slightly larger group. 

With the addition of Cyrus, Therion noted, Alfyn looked happy. He always did, really, but he looked a touch happier now that he managed to find someone who would actually uphold his end of a conversation.

It made him feel strange, for just an instant, but he shook his head. This was for the best. After all, now he could easily keep his distance, now that he wasn't forced to listen... forced to deal with his gentle eyes, his amicable curiosity. 

The skin under his bangle itched, and he scratched it absentmindedly.

_Yeah. This... is for the best._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhh this chapter was literal hell because I accidentally mistyped one of the end italics tags halfway through so guess who had to fix THAT disaster....  
> Anyways, I hope this one flows okay since I've actually had the second half (where Alfyn and Therion encounter Cyrus) ready for about two months. I only just managed to bridge it today hahaha....  
> Also, just as a side-note, I played Octopath with the Japanese voices, so that's why Alfyn's speech might seem a bit more rowdy than those who played with English voices might expect. I honestly really prefer his original voice, so that's the way he'll be written in this story!!


	4. Learning to Get Along, Maybe

Traveling as a slightly larger group taught Therion a couple of things. 

One was the fact that the more people there were in a group, the more difficult it was to agree on things that made everyone happy. 

The course had been altered slightly. Instead of going directly towards Noblecourt, they had decided to take a temporary detour towards the Woodlands. ‘They’, of course, didn’t include Therion, since it was more in his best interests to make a beeline for the dragonstone and get the hell out as soon as humanly possible. No matter how he looked at it, the Woodlands were decidedly in the _opposite_ direction of where he needed to go, and he wasn't a happy camper. 

But, they had good reason to want to swing by that way— the eastern edges of the Flatlands had recently become overrun with particularly large, dangerous packs of monsters, and it was strongly advised by posted signs, wandering guards, and traveling mercenaries that only groups of four or more should travel through those areas... especially when the majority of their current group was fairly ill-equipped to do battle with monsters. The advice from a hunter would be tremendously helpful, if they couldn't persuade one to come along, and while Therion had no particular desire to take the scenic route for the time being, he was outvoted, and trudged behind them all the way to a tiny roadside tavern, where they decided to break for the day.

The second thing he learned was that Cyrus was, quite frankly, one of the hottest people Therion had ever laid eyes on. 

The soft, flickering light of the fire the three of them were sat beside highlighted all of his finest points. Everything about him was strangely beautiful, from the clarity of his blue eyes to the delicate angles of his jawline. His black hair was silky and clean, his fingers were long-boned and fine, and he was, unsurprisingly, sharp as a whip (though _woefully_ lacking in street smarts). If he didn’t have the personality of a musty stack of paper, Therion might have seriously considered trying to get into those expensive embroidered pants and fucking him until he could no longer recite the complete history of Orsterra. However, as he was terribly dull to begin with (and 30 years old, to boot), that swiftly nipped _that_ thought in the bud. It would be a lie to say that Therion had never wondered about it, though, as he often did with the people he met. Just for fun, of course.

_Cyrus seems like the kind of person who would love being dominated,_ he thought, staring impassively over his mug. _Probably likes wearing a collar or some kinky shit like that. Or being tied up, maybe. Aristocratic people usually have some weird fetishes, don’t they...?_

As a poor person, Therion didn’t really know for sure, of course. Generally the peasants and vagrants of Orsterra had pretty low standards, and were usually more or less content with fucking like animals in bushes and back alleys... or at least, in their own meagre houses (though with their shoddy construction, they really might has well have been in the middle of the road). The rich of the continent, on the other hand, could afford to indulge in weirder things... some of which he would occasionally chance across while rifling through some rich lady’s drawers, or peeking underneath a lordling’s bed. 

So, with all his riches and prestige, it wouldn’t have really shocked Therion too terribly much to hear that the beloved professor might have a kink for being stripped down, leashed up, and forced to kneel, or something equally degrading.

Cyrus, at that moment, was fully clothed and happily blathering on about the various historical significances behind some of the medicinal flowers Alfyn had picked earlier, expression suggesting that it was the most enjoyable thing he had ever done in his life. Alfyn, of course, was deeply fascinated, nodding over his mug and asking questions and offering his own country-boy insight, much to Therion’s chagrin. 

_Alfyn’s either a complete virgin or the village slut_ , Therion decided, watching him cheerfully interact with Orsterra’s Sexiest Professor over several mugs of ale. Something about the scene annoyed him somewhat, but he didn’t really know what, specifically, it might have been. 

After some consideration, he decided that it was likely due to the fact that he didn’t really like either of them, so he supposed that that was probably it. Two irritating people (they were) having a very irritating conversation (it was) that felt, to Therion, as if they were purposefully leaving him out (they weren't). That, of course, also irritated him. 

... Not that he _wanted_ to join in, of course. 

Cyrus finished monologuing about the significance of Mind-me-always in the northern parts of the continent and appeared to come to his senses then, setting his cup down slowly.

“Ah, dear me...” he sighed, shaking his head morosely. “Do forgive me, Therion, if you can. We weren't meaning to exclude you.” 

_Oh.... Huh? Are they talking to me?_ Therion snapped out of his thoughts, focusing on their sheepish faces. Apparently they were.

“Yeah! Shit, I'm sorry. Where’re my manners?” chimed Alfyn, scratching the back of his neck. “We’ve just been blabbin’ on n’ on without'cha, weren’t we? Sorry, man.”

_Shit, they actually noticed._ Therion looked between them, finding that they actually looked guilty. _Who woulda thought._

He didn’t really care all that much, in the end, but the two of them just looked at him with apologetic eyes, waiting. They seemed to feel bad about it, and were wanting him to give judgment before continuing. Why were they like this?

“... Don't worry about it,” Therion eventually sighed, feeling a bit awkward. 

The two of them seemed to loosen up as he forgave them, but their attention stayed on him. Therion silently noted, from then on, to be careful what he wished for.

“In fact, I've spent _so_ much time rambling on my own that I didn't even realize that I know very little about you,” Cyrus said, tilting his head. “We do know that I am a professor, and that Alfyn is an apothecary. What about you? What do you do?” 

Actually, Therion greatly preferred it when they were talking amongst themselves. 

But, the two of them were deeply interested in what he had to say, and he didn't seem able to deter them, no matter how coldly he stared at them. 

_Fuck it, tell the truth. Maybe that'll get them to piss off._

“I'm a thief, actually. If you really _have_ to know.” 

Though, immediately after the words left his lips, a pulse of regret surged in to replace it. While they would have found out the true nature of his profession sooner or later, he only just realized then that it might have been infinitely wiser to, at the very least, wait until he was cured of his poisoning to drop the news that _oh, by the way, I just so happen to be a highly wanted **criminal**..._ After all, while he couldn't possibly care less if the hoity-toity cravatted prick decided to turn his nose up and flounce his way on to Quarrycrest without them, he couldn't afford to have Alfyn leave him behind just yet. 

After a beat, Alfyn was the first to speak. Therion bit the inside of his cheek, hoping that his weirdly passive nature would extend to this, too. 

“Ah, okay. Huh,” he said, blinking from surprise. “That’s kinda cool.” 

While he was clearly not expecting that answer, he didn't seem as uncomfortable as Therion expected. Just a bit taken aback.

“Are you... _good_ at being a thief?” wondered Cyrus, in a tone that neared complete innocence. It was so unexpected that Therion barked out a laugh and shook his head. _These people..._

“... Depends who you ask,” he said, wryly. The weight of the fool's bangle pressed heavily on his wrist, mocking him. _I thought so, until this happened._

Alfyn nodded, motioning towards him with his mug. “Fair enough. What if we ask you?”

_If they ask me?_ Therion tapped the side of his cup with his index finger, considering the question. _Was_ he good? 

Ah, but he knew the answer. The voice lingered in his chest, curled out from between his ribs to murmur in his ear. Even now, it made him shiver unpleasantly... made his scars ache from the ghost of a blade.

_You were blessed with such skill. I’ve never seen anyone as good as you._

Therion answered the only way he knew how. He reached underneath his cloak and dropped two items on the table with a clatter. One was a rare coin, the other a heavy and meticulously embroidered coinpurse. 

The reaction was immediate. The two men’s eyes widened from surprise, from recognition, and then confusion as they moved to check their pockets. Sure enough, their search came up empty, and their heads snapped back up.

“I’m not just _good_ ,” Therion said, locking eyes with them. “I can steal just about anything, from anyone. I’m a _master_.” 

_Surely that will deter them_ , he thought, satisfied. _No sane person would ever get too cozy with a thief who blatantly steals their shit._

Yet, incredibly, they were not upset in the least. In fact, they reminded him somewhat of children shown a magic trick, all starry-eyed and giggly. 

Therion couldn’t believe it. Really, what was _with_ these two??

“That’s amazing! Therion, when did you do that?!” Alfyn enthused, cheerily taking the coin back. Cyrus took his purse, after a moment of wonder.

“Yes, I do say that that was quite astonishing...” chimed in the professor, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Hmm, I, too, wonder when you might have done that. I cannot think of a moment where I let my guard down completely....” 

“I’d be a pretty shitty thief if you _could_ remember,” pointed out Therion, rolling his eyes.

Cyrus laughed then, soft and posh. “I daresay that you’re right. How silly of me.” 

Therion had no clue what to say after that. He couldn't even follow up with an insult. They had left no footholds, and he was at a loss. Why weren't they upset? Why weren't they uneasy? He didn't get it. All he wanted was for them to keep their distance. All he wanted from them was to stick with him for the time being, Alfyn being obligated to treat him and nothing else, playing off of each other's skills for the time they were together... and then nothing, because a week would pass, Therion would be cured, and he'd disappear. 

So why wouldn't they allow him that? Why wouldn't they leave him alone, despite knowing that he was a thief, and that they would soon have to part ways?

He couldn't help sulking for the rest of the evening, moodily drinking his ale while they started talking again, this time about— to his complete and utter delight— thieves. At least the tone of the conversation wasn't unpleasant, which was a change that Therion was wholly unprepared to hear. Nobody, aside from other thieves, ever spoke highly of them. Thieves were like vermin, lumped in the same category as rats and fleas and beggars, and the only kind thing people ever had to say about any of them is when they found one dead. In fact, these two seemed like the least likely types of people to be okay with it... aside from people of the church, or merchants. 

And yet, these two seemed determined to appreciate his talents, and Therion couldn't imagine why.

The night ticked on, and they ate and drank their fill, Alfyn and Cyrus shooting the breeze all the while. The food was unusually flavourful for a simple roadside setup, and the three of them were pleasantly surprised. Even Cyrus, used to fine meals, hadn't a single complaint about the freshly-baked rolls or the juiciness of the chicken. The other two had even fewer. Alfyn was a man of simple tastes, and Therion was simply thrilled to eat something that wasn't cold or stale. His mood stabilized to something nearing neutrality, soothed by the comfort of food in his belly and ale to soften it all together. By the time the three of them were done, Therion felt alright, all things considering.

It was probably the ale making him think this, but it really wasn't _that_ horrible to share a meal with company, after six years spent eating alone.

This particular tavern was set up for travelers, so it had a room to rent upstairs. Unfortunately, being a small tavern, it only had two beds. Therion immediately claimed one for himself. It was for absolutely no reason aside from being petty, since he could sleep on anything, but he didn't care. Alfyn immediately offered the remaining bed to Cyrus, and while he politely declined, Therion and Alfyn both could tell that he had absolutely no desire whatsoever to sleep on the floor. Therion doubted that Cyrus had ever slept on a floor in his life. It would probably kill him if he did.

“Ugh, just take the bed, old man,” Therion muttered, hiding a tiny smirk when Cyrus spluttered out an indignant _‘old?!’_. Alfyn's rich peals of laughter covered over his protests, filling the room with a sense of something almost like companionship, and Therion blamed it on the drinks. 

But, not after listening to his laugh for a little longer, wondering just how someone as kind as him could laugh so brightly at something _he_ said. 

An hour later, when everyone was laying in their beds (or their bedroll, in Alfyn's case) and the candle was long put out, Therion stared at the outlines of their bodies, listening to their breathing. Alfyn had already dropped off to sleep, and Cyrus was probably on his way. 

Therion preferred sleeping only after everyone else was asleep, if he could help it. So he laid there awake. Waiting. Thinking. 

Well, _over_ thinking. He was overthinking, and he knew it. 

How could he not? Ghosts surrounded him, sitting on the edge of his bed, crawling in to lie next to him. How could he not overthink, when dealing with something like that?

How couldn't he, when dealing with some _one_ like him?

He knew that it was one ghost in particular (the same one as it always was). He knew who it was, with a razor-like tongue and uncomfortably familiar hands, visiting him near about every night his guard was down. Lying next to him. Cutting him with soft-spoken threats. Lingering. 

_It’s been six fucking years_ , thought Therion, dragging a palm down his face. _Why won’t he leave me alone already?_

It was the unpredictability of the ghost that made it so difficult. Most nights he would just lie down quietly beside him, mattress dipping under his weight as he'd settle next to him to conserve warmth. Sometimes, though, his memory was more active, reminding him of things that both sickened him and made him ache from a sort of homesickness.

For a moment, he swore that he felt the tickle of reddish hair on his throat, on his cheek.

He closed his eyes, dispelling away the memories. _Go away. Just go away already._

“Therion?” a voice whispered, and his eyes snapped back open, heart pounding. _Alfyn._

“What?” he replied, a bit tersely. “You know, some people try to _sleep_ at night.”

He wasn’t cranky because he had been nearly asleep. It would take some time yet before he would manage to drop off. Rather, Therion was just irritated that he had misjudged _who_ had fallen asleep, out of the other two.

Though it was hard to see much in the darkness of the room, he could faintly see Alfyn staring up at him from the floor. Something about his silence, the way he looked at him, told Therion that he didn’t believe him in the slightest when he implied that he had woken him up.

But, in the end, he didn’t fight with him on that. “Sorry. I thought about lettin’ ya know in the mornin’, but I didn’t want to wait, just in case I forgot.” 

“Forgot _what_? Get to the point.”

Alfyn was silent for another moment. Therion wondered if he had actually managed to anger him. 

However, he only sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s... nothin’ _too_ major, really. Just, uh.... You know earlier, when you were showin’ us what you stole from us?”

“Haven’t forgotten about that yet, no.” 

“Hah. Well, that’s good. But, um, anyways... You took a coin from me.” 

“And that coin is important to you somehow, I gather.” 

The faint outline of Alfyn’s head nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t really blame you for takin’ it. It’s probably the most valuable thing I possess. But, ah...”

“Spit it out. I’m tired,” Therion said, on the verge of cruel, and Alfyn’s voice got even quieter.

“Well, it... it belonged to my mother. Um... before... she died.” 

_Oh._

“... She passed away two years ago. Before that, it used to belong to my father. He said that that coin ended up allowin’ him to meet her, so he kept it as a good-luck charm. After he died, she held on to it. And... now it’s mine, I guess.” 

Well. What was there to say to that? Therion looked away, feeling like an ass. 

Alfyn was quiet for a spell, uncomfortable. For once, the silence, rare as it had become around talkative Alfyn, was more suffocating than a respite. 

Eventually, Therion could stand it no longer. Alfyn wasn't sleeping, and he almost worried that he might never, at this rate. 

And he was tired. Though he knew what would probably (likely, _definitely_ ) be waiting for him if he fell asleep, he still didn't want to be awake anymore.

“... How did it.... ‘allow’ him to meet your mother?” he asked, after a beat. He couldn’t really imagine how that would work, no matter what scenario he thought of. 

And Alfyn seemed delighted that he'd ask. His voice softened into fondness, recalling a story he'd been told many times before. “Well, it’s simple: He was walkin’ down the road, flippin’ the coin as he went. Probably whistlin’, knowin’ him. At one point, it bounced off of his thumb wrong and went rollin’ down the street. It rolled and rolled... right until it stopped, smack-dab underneath a pretty girl's skirts.” 

He breathed out a small laugh. “Poor guy had no clue what to do. She was busy chattin’ with a shopkeep, and didn’t notice. So the damn fool did the best thing he could think of: try and retrieve it without her noticin’, and mosey along his way. Bet you can imagine just how well _that_ went.” 

“... I mean, _you_ exist, so I’d imagine pretty well,” Therion supposed, hearing Alfyn chuckle again. 

“I mean, you ain’t _wrong_ , I guess. At the time, though, she was pretty damn startled to turn around and see some scruffy young fellow on his hands n’ knees, right about to reach under her skirt.... She smacked him a couple a times.” 

“Romantic.” 

“I know, right? Anyways, once he retrieved his coin and ran off, tail between legs, the shopkeep explained to her what had happened. She ended up feelin’ so bad about her reaction that she tracked him down and apologized with a blackberry pie.”

_And the rest is history..._ thought Therion, shifting under the covers. _A bouncing baby bumpkin was made, and now, twenty-one years later, he gets to annoy me all day._

Across the room, Cyrus murmured in his sleep. Something about grading papers. 

“...... Y’know, I wasn’t lyin’ earlier when I acted like I don’t really care that you’re a thief,” Alfyn eventually said, tone sad again. “Because I don’t, for the most part. I mean... life is real tough, and it’s hard to survive nowadays. And... y'know, despite your profession, you seem like a reasonable person, by what I can glean, so... Anyways. I don’t... _really_ care if you pinch my leaves, or... I dunno, whatever other valuables I might end up with at some point. Just... please don’t take that coin. I’d have a hell of a time tellin’ her that I lost it, next time I happen to... to swing by her restin’ place.” 

In his bed, Therion sighed. Look at that. He had tried so hard to upset the guy, and here it was to bite him in the ass. It’s not as if he _knew_ that that coin had sentimental value to him. It’s not as if he _cared_ about his feelings. 

So why did it feel so shitty?

“Keep a better eye on it next time, then,” Therion replied, begrudging, not quite able to force himself to spit out an apology. He’d sooner rip one of his own teeth out than admit that he cared enough to even think about saying sorry, because he wasn’t supposed to care. He couldn’t afford to care. 

_Trustin’ people like that’ll only ever lead to a backstabbin’, Therion. Softheartedness has its price, an' you n’ I can’t afford to spare th’ leaves for it._

And Alfyn laughed quietly, sounding a touch more relaxed. 

“Ah, well, I don’t think I’ll need to be doin’ that. It’s safe as can be right where ya found it. Most people don’t go diggin’ too deep in an apothecary’s bag, let alone for a coin or two.”

“Huh? But I know where it is now. Wouldn’t that make it even easier for me to take it again?” 

Another small laugh. 

“Oh, I’m sure it would. But you won’t.” 

“I... what?” 

“You won’t,” Alfyn repeated, just as certain as the first time. 

_What?_ A very confused, irritated Therion pushed himself up slightly, looking more fully at him. “And... why the hells do you sound so confident that I won't? I thought I told you that I’m a _thief_. You know, someone who _steals things_. What makes you think that your little sob story’ll change anything?” 

“Because you won’t take it.” Alfyn said, once more. “Look, if you _really_ wanted to steal it a second time, you wouldn’t’ve warned me. You woulda just taken it and sold it before I even noticed it was gone.”

Therion said nothing.

“Maybe, for some reason, you’re just sayin’ it to make a challenge for yourself. You know, get my guard up so it’ll be harder for you to take it. But that don’t sound right to me, either. I mean, you said it yourself, didn’t ya? You’re a master, Therion. Why would someone like you be lookin’ for a challenge, especially from someone as big a damn fool as myself?”

Alfyn stopped for a moment, as if he'd just thought of something, then chuckled again. “When Cyrus took his coinpurse back, I saw where he stashed it. It wasn’t tied at his hip, like most other people do. The guy keeps it in a hidden pocket in the inner linin’ of his coat. I highly doubt he woulda put it there if he didn’t normally do that. People don’t really like changin’ up that sorta thing, if they can help it. So, you somehow managed to reach inside his cloak and take his purse without not only Cyrus himself noticin', but myself, too, and the three of us haven’t really been split apart at any point. Get what I’m sayin’?” 

He did. Unfortunately. “... You’re saying that I don’t need to test anything, since I’ve already proved my skill by taking Cyrus’s purse. That it?” 

“That’s it. So I’ve gotta say, Therion— thanks. Thief or not, you ain’t so bad.” 

Therion snorted. 

“Now, on that note, I’m flaxed right out from all a today’s wanderin’, so I’m gonna get some sleep. You should, too. Doctor’s orders.” 

Though he couldn’t really see him, Therion could still hear the wink in his voice. 

“.... I guess,” he replied, lying back down. This felt oddly like an echo of the night before, though he was decidedly less exhausted than that night. If anything, he was on the verge of wired, brain alight with new thoughts, new paranoia to steep himself in. 

Why did he care?

“Goodnight, Therion. For real this time.” 

“..... Mm,” 

With that, Alfyn nestled himself deeper into his blankets. His breathing slowed soon after, intermingling with Cyrus's soft breaths to form a peaceful white noise. 

Above them, a soft rain started to fall. 

It took a couple of hours longer before Therion fell asleep.


	5. Deception, Mischief, and a Fucking Snow Leopard

The drizzle hadn’t let up through the night, and Therion awoke to dim daylight and the deafening roar of a heavy rain slamming into the roof. It was a sound rarely heard in Bolderfall, arid as it was, and he lay there in silence, listening to it for a long while. The sound was loud, he observed. More loud than he recalled it being. But, noisy at it was, it was pleasant. It wiped out the thoughts in his mind, leaving it clean and quiet and free of ghosts and nightmares and whatever else he was plagued with while trying to sleep.

He had mixed opinions on the rain. As a wanderer, it was both a blessing and a curse. Rain was free, and clean. All he needed to do was leave an open flask unattended and the rain would fall and fill it with drinkable water. It could also serve as an impromptu shower, washing away the grime accumulated from the unpredictable ways of living on the street. It covered his footsteps and left him harder to detect, and allowed an easier escape. But, rain was cold. Rain put out his fires and soaked into his clothes. Rain beat down on his face and woke him up in the middle of the night, and rain left him shivering, searching for shelter. Rain could kill him, like so many other things out there in the world if he wasn't vigilant enough. 

And, for once, Therion was sheltered from just about all of those things. 

He shifted under the covers. He felt... good, which surprised him a bit. There were none of the aches or pains from sleeping on the ground, none of the persistent stiffness in his neck and shoulders that tended to come with using his worn bedroll. Sleeping in a real bed was a rare treat for him, and it left his body feeling somewhat more well-rested than usual.

He sat up, looking around, and nearly jumped clean out of his skin when he met eyes with someone sitting on the other bed. 

_Oh, right_ , he thought, trying to settle his wild heartbeat. _I’m not alone, for once._

“My apologies,” Cyrus said, softly. He was in the middle of brushing his hair, twisting a ribbon through it to make a ponytail. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Therion. Good morning, by the way. I hope that you had a pleasant sleep, all things considering,” 

Therion snorted. “Who says you startled me?” 

Cyrus raised his eyebrows, setting his brush down on the bed. He looked almost like a porcelain statue, pale and perfect, and Therion hated it. He knew that if he ran his hands over his own body, even without looking, he’d know exactly where he’d find ridges and dips and the gnarl of flesh not perfectly healed, all of the blunders and punishments and injustices the world has been cruel enough to give him in spades. 

Would Cyrus have anything like that? Any scarring beyond childhood scraped knees and papercuts from a book? 

Of course not. Why would he? Why would anyone be scarred as badly as he was, as balled-up and as broken as garbage, when they had houses, and families, and _lives_...?

“Oh, did I misinterpret?” he asked, blinking his pretty blue eyes. “Once again, my apologies.” 

“Tch, whatever. Where’s the scruffy one?” he asked, glancing around the room. He wasn’t in his bedroll, which he hadn't been expecting. How late had he slept in? Or, rather, how early had the other two gotten up? There was no clock in the room, so he had no idea what time it was.

Cyrus gave a small laugh, continuing to dress himself. “Oh, Alfyn? I believe that he went downstairs to order breakfast. I do recall him mentioning something about making some medicine for you, as well, or else— and I quote— ‘the nice innkeep downstairs might be a little upset with us’.” 

_Ah._ That made sense. Therion nodded, swinging his legs off of the side of the bed. He figured that he had might as well get up before he felt like shit. 

He stood and put his shawl back on before Cyrus could get a good look at the scars cutting over his body. His weapons followed, each one getting strapped back into place, and Cyrus watched this with a mixed expression. Though he hadn't been there himself, by what he understood of Atlasdam, there weren't exactly too many folks walking around that would be as heavily armed as he was. Surely Cyrus would find the notion a bit strange.

Finally, he threw his scarf around his neck and went downstairs without a word. Cyrus could follow if he wanted. 

Sure enough, Alfyn was there, mixing the panacea whilst chatting happily with the innkeep. She was standing at a woodstove, frying up a heaping pan of sausages and eggs and laughing at something he said. Like everyone they had come across, she seemed to get along well with Alfyn. 

“Heya, good mornin’!” Alfyn called, towards Therion. “Didja have a good sleep?” 

Therion gave a noncommittal shrug. Truth be told, it was better than the majority of the sleeps he’s had in his life. 

“Well, hey, that’s great to hear!” he replied, apparently able to somehow read more or less what Therion was thinking. “And good timin’! Just finished this a second ago for ya,” he added, passing the bottle over towards Therion. This time, to Alfyn’s relief, he didn’t try to antagonize him and just drank it. He still winced at the tartness, and Alfyn still had a hearty laugh at his expense. 

“Quite the interesting company you’ve got yourself, Alfyn,” the innkeep commented, pulling a loaf of bread from the oven. It smelled heavenly, and Therion felt his stomach growl from hunger. “All of you are so different.”

“We are a strange combination, are we not?” mused Cyrus, coming down the stairs, and Alfyn gave him a wave. 

“Hey! Good mornin’!” 

“Good morning to you, as well. Did you sleep well?”

“Oh, shucks, ‘course I did. Ol’ Alfyn sleeps just fine anywhere, floor included,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “And yeah, we’re all pretty different. But hey, it sure makes travelin’ fun! It’d be pretty damn boring if we all had the exact same kind of background, right?” 

“Well, as they say,” the innkeep chimed in, balancing several plates on her arm. “Variety is the spice of life, is it not?”

“Hah! Yeah, my ma used to say the same. Thanks, by the way,” he added, as she set their plates in front of them. “But yeah. Orsterra’s pretty big, with all kinds’ve different people, n’ different cultures... Bet there’s a lot of really good stories out there.” 

“Ooh, yes, I do agree,” enthused Cyrus, stabbing a hashbrown with his fork. “There are many different cultures dispersed across the continent, some of which are almost completely unlike those of their neighbours, proximity notwithstanding. The Woodlands, for example, despite not being too far from the Frostlands, have _entirely_ different lifestyles and customs in their respective regions. Even their local dialects are completely distinct from one another. In fact, I daresay that the dialect spoken by the people of the Woodlands, S’warkii in particular, is easily the most unique variant of the language on the continent.” 

“Huh. I dunno if I’ve ever heard it before...” hummed Alfyn, around a mouthful of egg. Therion rolled his eyes at the sight. “I mean... not shockingly, we don’t really get a ton of travelers passin’ through Clearbrook... ‘specially not ones from as far as the Woodlands.” 

“Clearbrook...” Therion repeated, without meaning to. Had he been to Clearbrook before? Passed through, maybe. 

“Yeah, it’s about a day south of the Cliftlands, I’d say. Not too terribly far from Saintsbridge.” 

_Oh, Saintsbridge_. Therion knew that place well. He had quite a few memories from Saintsbridge, in fact, and they were almost all tinged with green capes and locks of orange hair. With pockets heavy with plunder and the burn of alcohol in his throat. 

_Let’s not think about Saintsbridge._

“Alfyn, I have been wondering about something,” said Cyrus, and Therion, for once, was almost grateful for the distraction. 

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

“Well, simply about what the purpose of your travels are. You just mentioned that you were from Clearbrook, and you said previously that you were planning on paying a visit to Goldshore. Are you trying to become a traveling apothecary?” 

His expression brightened. “That I am! Y’see, when I was real young...” 

And he retold Cyrus what he had told Therion about the mysterious traveling apothecary that had saved his life. About how he had done it for free, without seeking any kind of recognition, then disappeared without a trace. He also mentioned his strange plan about how he was trying to follow in his footsteps by healing those in need without cost, and Therion shook his head once more. Even re-explained to someone else, it still didn’t make any sense to him. 

But, well, if he wanted to be an idiot, then so be it. Therion ate his breakfast in a thoughtful silence, half-listening to the other two talking amongst themselves. Like yesterday’s dinner, the food was good, and he savoured every bite. 

“Have you ever been to the Woodlands, Professor?” Alfyn asked, and Cyrus shook his head. 

“No, I cannot say that I have. I have mostly only explored the Flatlands, though I have ventured to Grandport a handful of times for the market. Even then, though, that was by ship.” 

“Oh, huh. Yeah, I obviously haven't been _that_ far. It sounds really neat, though! Zeph’s dad used to go there sometimes for some rare ingredients. The markets have all kinds’ve stuff that you can’t really find elsewhere.”

“Zeph?” wondered Cyrus, and Therion had to choke back a sigh.

_Oh, here we go about Zeph again_... thought Therion, as Alfyn started happily explaining to Cyrus just who this Zeph fellow was, and he rolled his eyes. _If you like this guy so much, then why don’t you just fucking marry him?_

He could, too, if he wanted. Alfyn, being a nice, normal person with a kind, gentle heart, would easily find someone to marry one day. 

_Must be nice. Not that I’ve ever really thought about it._

Cyrus and Alfyn turned into background noise as Therion silently ate his breakfast. Like yesterday’s dinner, it was good. The eggs were cooked perfectly, the hashbrowns were seasoned well, and the sausages were juicy and flavourful. The butter melted onto the bread as he spread it, and he savoured the luxury of a slice of bread still warm from the oven. 

_Might have to swing by here at some other point, if I’m in the neighbourhood again..._ he thought, polishing off his breakfast. 

After the other two had finished up and the plates were taken away, there wasn’t much to pack up before they were ready to leave. Alfyn said his goodbyes to his new friend the innkeep, and she waved at the three of them from the door, bidding them safe travels. The rain had finally let up by then, leaving the earth soaked to its core and a too-bright sun in its wake. An invigorated Alfyn moved to lead the pack, nearly marching forth in his enthusiasm. Therion supposed that part of his burst of energy was likely due to just having eaten, and the other part might have been from the weather— the Riverlands were prone to rain, and lots of it. Comparatively, the Cliftlands were almost the polar opposite in terms of humidity. Alfyn, who would have grown up rolling in dewy grass and tromping through the river shallows, probably felt like choking in the dry, dusty Cliftlands, and found this dreary weather to be a familiar relief.

He stretched his arms out wide, loudly and happily declaring to the world what a lovely day it was, and plucked a long strand of grass to chew on. Therion couldn’t believe that he would do something so stereotypical of a hick. 

Aside from a few rogue monsters (which they made quick work of), they didn’t meet any other travelers on the way to the forest, which both relieved Therion and irritated him. While he didn’t _adore_ the thought of having to wait as Alfyn (or Cyrus, for that matter) decided to try and befriend every single person they passed by, he _had_ been looking for some fresh pockets to pick, since his supply of leaves was— thanks to a certain group of bandits— sadly nonexistent. The rest of their group wasn't much richer, for once. He had already checked Alfyn’s purse a while ago, and found a pittance within (though, it was still more than he had at that moment, so he couldn’t poke _too_ much fun at him). Cyrus, of course, had the most actual funds on him, but even so, after their stay in that roadside tavern, it didn’t look like enough to pay for three whole rooms at whatever inn they came across in S’warkii. 

And while Alfyn would probably sleep on the floor without being asked, Therion sure as hell didn’t want to potentially wake up to find that he’d gotten cold and snuggled up next to him in bed, or something equally embarrassing. 

Or woke to him screaming from a particularly vivid nightmare, or tried to ease out his secrets in the quietest hours of the dawn, when it always felt so much easier to tell people things he never would otherwise.

So, they’d have to think of something clever. 

While they paused to confirm with the map that they were almost at their destination, Therion decided to try brainstorming through this.

“Neither of you have any more leaves than what’s in your purses?” he asked, seemingly out of the blue, and the other two turned away from the map to look at him.

“Hm? Nah, that’s all I’ve got, heheh...” Alfyn admitted, shoving a hand through his hair. “Guess I should’ve tried to scrounge up more before I set off, but what can ya do, eh?” 

_Or, alternatively, you could actually charge people for helping them, but what do I know, eh...?_

“I, ah, admittedly appear to be in a similar situation...” Cyrus agreed, sheepishly. “I do have more funds at my residence, but that obviously won’t serve us too well at the moment.” 

Therion nearly asked why he didn’t bring them along, but he knew well enough that Cyrus probably hadn’t really anticipated having to pay not just for himself, but for two unexpected interlopers, as well. Besides, it was generally a pretty stupid idea to take all of one’s wealth with them on their travels, in the event that somebody might try and rob them. 

_You know, like what happened to get me in this mess in the first place...._

Having said that, the fact that Cyrus wasn’t _upset_ to share his wealth was surprisingly generous of him, and Therion begrudgingly supposed that he couldn’t really fault him for that, since it was benefiting him, as well.

“Why do you ask, Therion?” Cyrus wondered, smiling conversationally, and Therion sighed.

“Figure it out, genius. It’s too dangerous to sleep outside in these woods, and getting rooms for us at the inn is only going to get more expensive as we go. You know, since there’s _three_ of us.” he added, a bit harshly, and Alfyn held up a palm.

“Now, now,” he soothed, giving a gentle smile. Therion scoffed and looked away. “None of us really planned on this, myself included, and that’s okay. We just have to adapt, right? Like, maybe we could just share rooms?” 

Therion shook his head. “Not happening.” 

“Oh. Well, uh, okay,” he replied, awkwardly scratching his cheek. “I wasn’t, like... implying that we had to share beds or anythin’.” 

“I know.” 

Alfyn shrugged, deciding not to bicker with him about this. 

“In that case, it almost sounds as if you might have a plan in mind, Therion,” Cyrus observed, and Therion nodded. 

“Yeah. We just have to convince someone to put in a nice word for us at the inn.” 

Alfyn raised an eyebrow. “A word?” 

“Inns would much rather have lots of travelers stay for cheap than a few at full price, if they can get lots of people in,” explained Therion. “That being said, they won’t lower the rates for just about anyone. If the locals like them, they’ll offer to put in a word of recommendation for them.” 

Alfyn’s expression brightened. “Oh! So we just have to make friends with people, and they’ll do that for us?” 

“ _Or_ —” Therion interjected, shaking his head. “—one of us gets injured, and they lower the rates out of obligation. That usually works a lot better than trying to get random townsfolk to vouch for you.” 

Alfyn looked decidedly less excited about this. Cyrus hummed in thought, considering it. 

“How... would we go about that?” he wondered, tone cautious. Evidently he wasn’t fully sold on it, but, unlike Alfyn, he did seem a bit curious. 

“Simple. One of us ‘gets injured’,” he said, with air quotations. “and one of us goes to ask someone where the inn might be. They take a look at the injured person, feel bad, and ask the innkeep to let us in for cheap out of the goodness of their heart, or something like that.” 

The other two glanced at each other.

“Any questions?” asked Therion, knowing that there was probably going to be a million of them. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a question,” said Alfyn, and Therion sighed, nodding for him to continue. “Just, ah... do we _really_ have to go this far?” 

Therion crossed his arms in response, fixing him with a level stare. “Stupid question, considering how _somebody_ here never accepts any kind of payment for his time and effort. What, do you think you can really just walk in to an inn and _explain_ your situation? That, oh, I don’t know, that you have a weird philosophy that money doesn’t matter, and you therefore don’t really _have_ any? They’d laugh in your face and tell you to come back when you’ve gotten enough leaves to cover your ass.” 

“Sheesh,” Alfyn replied, scratching the back of his neck. “You... y’know, you coulda just said ‘yes’ and be done with it.”

“Fine. Yes, we do. Next question.” 

Cyrus lowered his hand. “I was just wondering, Therion... What shall my role be in this event?”

_Finally, some fucking cooperation_. “Easy. You’ll be the injured one. You get to do... absolutely nothing.” 

He hadn’t been expecting that. “N-nothing?”

“Yup. To be honest, I’ve got a funny feeling that you’re a shit actor.”

Cyrus laughed out a short, surprised sound. “Well! Y-yes, you’re probably not far off there, I’m afraid. I’ve been told that I try a little _too_ hard to be convincing in acting of any sort.” 

_How did I know you’d be a thespian at heart...?_ “Thought so. So, I want you to be barely conscious, or maybe even unconscious. Like you’re dying of exhaustion, or an illness, or something.” 

“That sounds manageable to me,” Cyrus said, and Alfyn sighed.

“Lemme guess,” Alfyn drawled. “That’s where I come in, right?” 

“Now you’ve got it. Since Cyrus supposedly collapsed, you’ll be carrying him. I really don’t care how. However you’d carry any other patient.” 

“Right, okay. I suppose I can do that much.” 

“Great. Okay. And let’s leave the talking to _me_ , okay? I don’t want either one of you accidentally blowing our cover and fucking up our reputation.” _Because neither of you can even **fathom** how much you have to pay the barkeeps to get people back on your side._

Alfyn looked as if Therion had suggested they behead the innkeep. Cyrus chewed on his lower lip, as if debating whether to protest or not. 

Therion heaved out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What? What’s the problem now?” 

And the two men glanced at each other, weighing out the consequences of whatever complaint they shared, before Cyrus spoke up. 

“It... is nothing major, really. I simply... cannot imagine that you would speak as... ah, _coarsely_ as you normally do to someone you were trying to win over, in this scenario.” 

_Oh, is that all? You’re saying that I’m too rude?_ Therion snorted, shaking his head. “Obviously _not_. Look. _Shockingly_ , I’m perfectly aware that my natural personality isn’t the most... _pleasant_ , okay? Just trust me on this. I’ve survived this long by myself somehow.” 

Alfyn blinked, and tilted his head. “I wouldn’t say your personality is _unpleasant_ —” 

“Alfyn.” 

“Right. Okay, I trust ya,” he relented. 

_Fucking finally._

With Therion as stage director, Cyrus was mussed up enough to look sick and was hefted into Alfyn’s hold, one arm dangling limp below him. He certainly _looked_ to be in poor shape, and Therion was satisfied. 

“... That'll do, I guess. Now, follow me. I’m gonna try that woman over there,” he said, angling his head towards her. She was a Woodlands local, carrying a basket with mushrooms in it. As far as they could tell, she was on her way back to town from foraging. 

Therion didn’t quite run, so that Alfyn could keep up, but his pace was noticeably rushed, nearly tripping in trying to get to her. The sound alerted her, making her pause and look towards him, confused. 

“Excuse me!” he called, and she stopped completely, waiting for him to catch up. 

“E-excuse me, ma'am, but could I bother you for just a moment?” he stammered, and Alfyn almost lost his hold on Cyrus. 

Though he hadn’t changed his clothes, or disguised himself in any way, Therion wasn't _Therion_ anymore. His voice was meek and his posture was completely different, hunched down from shyness, hand with the bangle tucked neatly behind his back. It took every single ounce of self-restraint in Alfyn and Cyrus both to stop themselves from gawking at the sight.

“Thou mayest,” the woman replied, casting a quick glance towards the other two behind him. “Might I somehow be of assistance, traveler?” 

“I-I think so, maybe....” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “Um, y-you see, my friend collapsed, and... and I don't know what's wrong with him. So, um, we were just wondering where the inn was? So the apothecary here can... can get a better look at him...” 

Her dark eyes softened from concern, taking in Cyrus’s motionless body. 

“The inn? Thou shalt find it o’er yonder,” she said, gesturing up the path. “Followest the road for a minute more, and thou shalt see it on thy left.” 

“Thank you so much,” Therion replied, giving a weak smile. “But— and I’m so sorry to ask this— but, um... how much... are the rates?” 

She regarded him for a long moment, searching, then sighed. “... Truth be told, our inn hath rates that I deem expensive, personally. But... thou seemest to be of a reasonable sort of folk. My sister-in-law owneth the inn. I shall go with thee to put in a word for thee, if mine company might be allowed for a time.” 

Therion’s mouth fell open, and then his eyes crinkled into something nearing genuine happiness, a small smile blooming over his cheeks. 

And Alfyn knew that it was fake, that he was just acting, but he still felt something in his chest squeeze at the sight. 

“R-really? Oh, thank you ever so much! We’ll be eternally grateful for this, thank you...” 

“‘Tis nothing, traveler. I, too, haven been in situations liken this one.” 

They headed towards the inn, Cyrus remaining still in Alfyn’s arms. Therion didn’t once slip up on his acting, playing the part of a scared, charming young man so effortlessly that it was becoming very hard to believe that he normally had the mannerisms of a caged raccoon. 

The innkeeper’s eyes widened from shock upon seeing an apothecary carrying someone, and allowed them in without question. The woman Therion spoke to talked with the innkeeper in hushed tones, and it was agreed to lower the fee substantially for the night. Therion gushed his gratitude and paid with the remaining contents of Cyrus’s purse, getting three rooms for them. He’d have to see if he could make up for it later. _Surely somebody in this village might have a couple of leaves they won’t miss..._

He took his key and went down the hall. It didn't take long to find the room they were in. Cyrus was sitting on the bed, Alfyn in the chair, and they looked at him with barely-contained glee when he entered the doorway. 

_Oh boy. Here we go._

“Therion!” Alfyn enthused, standing up and crossing the room in several quick strides to plant his hands on his shoulders. “That was _amazing_!” 

Therion kicked the door shut behind him, slapping Alfyn’s hands off. “Yeah, yeah. Told you to let me handle it.” 

"No, seriously!” Alfyn continued, nearly bouncing from enthusiasm. “You damn near had _me_ fooled! I've never seen anythin’ like that! You're incredible, Therion!” 

He flushed dark at the unexpected praise, shoving past him to steal the chair. “Don't sound so shocked. I've had to learn all kinds of skills to survive. Acting is one of them.” 

“Even so, I daresay that you have a natural affinity for it,” complimented Cyrus, giving a lovely smile. “In fact, I'd go so far as to say that you'd do wonderfully in the theatre, if you ever felt the desire to change your career.” 

Therion scoffed. _As if anyone would ever want to see me onstage._

Alfyn noticed that he took his spot and pouted, falling heavily enough onto the bed to nearly knock Cyrus off. Cyrus gave a tiny yelp, bouncing awkwardly on the mattress. Therion sighed. The two of them were ridiculous. 

“So, we gonna hit up the town, or what?” asked Alfyn, and Therion gave him a flat stare, holding up a hand. 

“Hold it, medicine man. Give it an hour or two before you go traipsing on out like nothing happened. Cyrus is supposed to be _sick_ ,” he added, turning his gaze towards the professor. He just giggled, eyes alight with mischief. Therion wouldn’t have guessed that an esteemed, noble, _highborn_ university professor would find deception so fun. 

“Right, right. Okay. Guess we've gotta lay low for a bit, huh?” Alfyn replied, sounding a touch disappointed. Therion couldn’t say that he felt any sympathy for him, since it wasn’t as if he had any leaves to spare towards avoiding this... 

"Oh, there’s simply no need to sound so _glum_ , Alfyn,” piped up Cyrus, clapping his hands together. “I’m certain that we are capable of passing time some way or another. In fact, I think that we have plenty of material to work with here.” 

Therion arched an eyebrow, already suspicious. “That being?” 

Cyrus beamed. “Why, talking about each other, of course!” 

Therion groaned, tipping his head back. Cyrus didn’t seem to notice his reaction, and simply kept going. 

“We have only known each other for twenty-four hours at most, after all, and you and Alfyn have only another twelve or so on me. That’s hardly enough time to get to know someone. So! Let us learn a little more about each other, shall we?” 

_Alfyn, please, I beg of you. Don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Just tell him to fuck off, please._

Alfyn beamed instead, and Therion knew that Alfyn was, in fact, going to do exactly what he _didn’t_ want him to do. _Damn it._

"Well, that sounds like a fine idea if I’ve ever heard one! Why don’t you go first, Professor? I’m sure you’ve got a ton of interesting stories and thoughts!” 

_This is going to be a long couple of hours......._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

It was, indeed, a long couple of hours. 

Therion, unsurprisingly, had rebuffed most of their attempts to wheedle out answers and information from him, generally pretending that he wasn’t listening or didn’t care enough to grace them with a reply. Whatever little scraps he dropped were carried away happily, like a child given a candy, and they contentedly chewed on whatever meagre tidbits he tossed them while they talked about teaching, about healing, about history and plants and chemical combinations and anatomy and family and whatever else happened to come their way, and while Therion did a great job of acting like he was too engrossed in sharpening his dagger, he, admittedly, absorbed much more than he expected. It was a habit, he knew, from years of lurking in tavern shadows and picking up crumbs from loose-lipped drunkards, and it wasn’t something he could just _shut off_ , useless as the background chatter here was. But, even though it was little more than trivia, he couldn’t help but to file it all away, each word tucked into a folder for later. He was reminded of their ages ( _21 for Alfyn, 30 for old man Cyrus_ ), of the states of their families ( _Both of Alfyn’s parents are dead, Cyrus still has all of his family_ ), of their favourite colours (Alfyn: _“I know that it probably sounds real cheesy to say it when my mantle’s already green, but I just really love green in general, y’know? It’s a lively colour.”_ ; Cyrus: _“... Does black count as a colour in this circumstance? No? Then, ah.... perhaps... an extremely deep indigo...?"_ ). 

As for him, well, they tried to squeeze out replies. The conversations more or less went like so: One of them would ask a question, and he would shrug. Or, he might pretend not to have heard it. Or, if it were a question that struck just a touch too close to a nerve, he’d scrape the dagger just a moment too long over the steel, spelling out a clear enough message that they’d back off for several more minutes, at least. 

But, in some ways, the two hours passed by a little faster than Therion had anticipated, and the two of them decided to take a quick look around. Browse the shops, talk with the locals, learn about the customs. Therion still had trouble comprehending someone willingly going up to a person and talking with them, voluntarily, because they wanted to, but he shrugged. Whatever. So long as Alfyn didn’t get himself in trouble, there was no particular harm in letting him befriend half the town. 

“Aww, you’re not comin’ along?” Alfyn asked, when Therion didn’t get up with them. 

“... Nah. I’ve socialized enough for now,” he replied, shrugging. Being around people for this long was still strange for him, and it was a hell of a lot more exhausting than he recalled. How Alfyn and Cyrus managed to continuously talk not only to each other, but to strangers as well, was beyond him. 

“Ah, well, that’s alright! You definitely don’t have to if ya don’t want to,” he said, accommodating as ever. “But hey, if you ever get the whim to, just come n’ find us! We shouldn’t be too far.” 

“Yes, S’warkii is a fairly small hamlet,” agreed Cyrus, idly picking lint off of his cloak. “Certainly, it would not take you much time to catch up with us, if you so wished.” 

_I think I’m good, but sure._ “Mm,” 

With a cheery _‘See ya later!’_ from Alfyn and a _‘Please try to stay out of trouble...’_ from Cyrus, the two of them left, and the room was quiet. Therion took in a breath, held it, released it. _Finally. Some silence._

With the two chatterboxes gone, Therion settled in for a nap. He slept soundly for about an hour, waking to find that the room was still empty. That suited him just fine, considering how little alone time he’d had in the past few days, and he relished the peace and quiet. 

A thief, however, only tolerated peace and quiet for so long. Half an hour passed, and he started to grow a bit bored. An empty room was only so exciting when alone, and he decided to wander the town. Do some sightseeing. Pick some pockets. Standard fare. 

He put his shawl and scarf back on, and jammed his feet back into his boots. As he always did, he locked the door upon leaving the room. He doubted that anybody would try to barge in, being as small a town as it was, but he couldn't be too careful. 

Outside, the people of the Woodlands passed by on their errands. Occasionally they stopped and chatted between each other, and Therion would overhear snippets of the most bafflingly confusing dialect in all of Orsterra. _Comen here, goeth o’er yonder... fucken right offen, if I mayest sayen so m’self._ Gods, but he _hated_ S’warkiian speech. 

He made his way through the paths of the town, idly watching the passerby. It was a rather cute little hamlet, he decided, with its wooden cabins and pools of sunlight dappled from the treetops. Though, quaint as it was, it was hardly a good spot for a thief to be wandering. It wasn’t a rich town, for one, and these people didn’t appear to possess anything that would sell well outside of the forest. The people of S’warkii were a practical one, for the most part, and the contents of their pockets and purses reflected that. 

He took a corner, wondering about a tavern. Surely even a little village like this would have an alehouse of sorts, right? He hoped so, anyways, for the sake of his sanity. 

The snow leopard was the first thing Therion noticed upon looking up, and he stopped dead in his tracks, heart beating wildly in his chest. _Holy shit._

His hand fluttered onto his dagger, which had never felt so woefully inadequate as a weapon before then, and he watched it carefully, warily. What the hell was a fucking _snow leopard_ doing there, anyways? This was S’warkii, in the _Woodlands_. Last Therion checked, they hadn’t gone as far north as the Frostlands. 

It seemed aware of his presence. Its ears flicked towards him, noting his position, before calmly moving to lick one of its paws. It seemed completely at ease, unlike a wild animal. No hostility could be detected at all, in fact, and Therion started to feel a bit confused. It was strange enough that it was here in the first place, but its attitude confounded him. Was it a pet? Tame? 

He dared to take his eyes off of the beast, and took a furtive glance around. People milled about, doing their usual daily activities. Children played with sticks, women dug in gardens. A pair of locals stood right beside the leopard, talking in hushed S’warkiian tones. One was a tall woman with a loose braid, and the other was an old man. They both looked like hunters, but the woman seemed somehow more authoritative, or experienced, perhaps. Regardless, with the snow leopard sitting there, he didn’t particularly want to approach them any further than he already was. 

With that, he shuddered and carefully circumvented them, resuming his search for whatever equivalent to a tavern this eccentric, woodsy town would possess. 

He eventually found it and stepped inside, surprised at how small it was. It only had space for about six tables, and half of them were occupied. 

With some difficulty, he ordered the local special, a pale lager, and sat at the corner table, facing the rest of the pub. The lager was crisp and slightly dry, which Therion didn’t _love_ , but it was refreshing nonetheless. 

His ears idly scanned through the room for information, but quickly found that he’d have to listen a bit less passively than usual if he wanted to absorb anything; the S’warkiian accent shared by most of the patrons was thick enough that he couldn’t easily understand them without paying close attention. He sighed into his cup. Nothing about this region was easy, was it...? 

From what he could hear, most of their conversations were about their domestic lives, or recent catches while hunting. As far as he could tell, anyways— their drunkenness slurred their words, rendering their dialect into something nearing gibberish at times. 

Time passed, and Therion hadn’t learned anything especially important. He sighed again, drinking more of his lager. Why did he even bother. 

The tavern door opened, and Therion watched the braided woman from before step inside. From his seat, he could see her face, and found that while she was beautiful, there was something akin to iron about her. She commanded respect, and everyone seemed to give it to her, barkeep included. He made eye contact, greeted her with a grin, and started a glass of lager for her. The two of them chatted, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying over the din of the other patrons. Even without the noise, he doubted that he would have been able to pick anything up anyways. 

Therion nearly inhaled his drink when the fucking snow leopard poked its head into the tavern, looking around with its piercing grey eyes. _Gods_ , but he’d never get used to that. Yet, nobody else in the tavern seemed especially bothered by its presence. Therion didn’t know whether that implied that it was friendly, or simply that this particular beast was a sort of fixture in the town, and so nobody thought it odd to see it. That, or they were too drunk to care. 

The woman took her drink and paid before sitting at the table next to Therion’s. She glanced at him with some curiosity upon noticing his unfamiliar presence, but didn’t pay him much attention otherwise. That suited him just fine... especially since the leopard laid down at her feet, and he didn’t want to have to potentially deal with it trying to snack on his leg, or something equally unpleasant. 

As he drank his lager, he noticed that the leopard seemed to be looking at him. It sniffed occasionally, ears flickering, eyes fixated on him. 

_Please don't..._ he thought, uncomfortably. It still didn’t look hostile, but the odds of successfully fighting off an adult snow leopard in the middle of a tiny tavern without killing himself or anyone else didn’t feel too good. 

He decided to try ignoring it, hoping that it might get bored with him and turn its attention elsewhere. But, to his intense discomfort, the beast stood back up. It was still staring at him. 

The woman took notice of this and looked over at him, as well. She studied him with hawk-like eyes, taking in his appearance and attire. It was exceedingly clear that he wasn't from there, and while he doubted that she'd be against travelers and tourists carousing through her village, she'd most likely be displeased to discover that he was a known thief. She hadn't seen the bangle. He had been holding the cup with his left hand. However, bangle or not, it would be foolish to think that she didn't find him suspicious at all, so he had to be on his guard. The hatchet and bow attached to her side didn't look like mere decorations, after all. 

His blood ran cold as the leopard started to approach him. 

Its body language didn't reveal any aggression, but he still shivered under its gaze as it stepped towards him, snuffling all the while. Did he smell interesting? Therion couldn't imagine so, aside from just being an outsider. Was that it? 

“Linde, whatever art thou doing?” the woman asked, shaking her head. “What of yonder traveler fascinaten thou so?” 

_Linde? It has a name?_ It was a strangely harmless moniker for such a large animal, and it almost reassured him. That is, until Linde drew in near enough for him to touch its fur, and he felt his heart rate quickening again. 

Did it want something from him? 

Did it _know_ something about him? 

_It's an animal, Therion. Don't be ridiculous._

The leopard nosed under his shawl and pressed at his right hand, sniffing it loudly. He stilled. He had half a mind to jerk his hand away, but he was too scared that it would see the movement and attack him for it. What did it want? 

He looked helplessly at the woman, unable to utter a single word. What was there to say? 

_Hey, call off your beast._

_Hey, excuse me, but your snow leopard is really close to me._

_Hey, lady, I think I’m about to shit my pants and it’s mainly because of your overgrown pet, could you tell it to back off?_

“Linde! Leaven him be.” the woman commanded, sighing. “Unless thou thinkest that he bearen something of note...?” 

_I really don’t, though..._

Therion set his cup down, and was about to speak up, when a sudden yank on his wrist nearly knocked him out of his chair. The damned cat was tugging on the chain of his fool’s bangle, pulling insistently towards the floor. Therion initially resisted, but there was no way he could possibly win against the strength in Linde’s shoulders, and it forced him to slide out onto the ground. 

“What... the _fuck..._?” he asked, helplessly, as the cat nosed at his bangle and licked at the raw skin underneath it. Small lines of red stained Linde’s tongue. Was he bleeding? 

“Traveler, aren thou injured?” asked the huntress, leaning over to look. “Prithee, forgivest Linde’s boldness. She meanest naught but sympathies—” 

It was then, Therion realized, that she noticed the fool’s bangle. 

“Ah,” she said, flatly. “thou aren a thief.” 

The whistling noise of something cutting the air was the only warning Therion received before a hunting knife lodged itself into one of the chain links, pinning him firmly to the floor. It all happened so fast that he barely even understood what had happened until he tried to pull his hand back, and found that it wouldn’t budge. 

“Now, whatever shalle I doen with thou....?” she asked, almost idly. Linde resumed licking his wounds, which wasn’t exactly a pleasant feeling, due to the roughness of its tongue. 

Therion had half a mind to cuss her out until he was blue in the face, but Linde’s proximity to him forced him to stay silent. A couple of patrons had glanced over to see what the noise was about, but they quickly resumed their drinking as if nothing unusual had happened. Either this happened often enough that this wasn’t noteworthy, or they didn’t dare interrupt the huntress from her vigilantism. 

Therion decided, right then and there, to never visit this place ever again if he could help it. 

While he was stuck, the door opened, admitting more patrons inside. Therion couldn’t see who it was, as the woman was in the way, but it didn’t take long to pick out Alfyn’s distinctive voice floating above the din of the bar. He was probably talking with Cyrus. 

_Finally, some fucking help_. Therion craned his neck, trying in vain to peer around the woman. He could just barely make out the tufts of their hair in between the heads of the other patrons. He nearly called out for them, but stopped himself when the woman looked more closely at him, as if saying something like _I knowest what thou art planning, Thief, and it might be in thy best interests to keepen thine mouth shut._

He didn’t have too long to wait anyways. They got their drinks and picked their way over towards his table. Alfyn was at the front of the line, and therefore saw Therion first. His expression broke into a grin, bright and friendly, and he started to head towards him. 

Just before he opened his mouth to greet him, he noticed Linde, and stopped cold. Cyrus nearly crashed into Alfyn’s back, coming close to spilling some of his drink. 

“Alfyn? What’s the matter?” he asked, peering over his shoulder. Linde looked up, and Cyrus’s face paled to the point of nearly turning grey. “G-good _heavens_ , is that a snow leopard...??” 

“Linde shall not harm thee. She attacketh not but solely on my command,” the huntress replied, and Linde resumed attending to Therion’s wrist. 

A minute passed, both men frozen in place. But, once they felt that Linde really wasn’t going to stand up and tear them limb from limb for speaking, Alfyn opened his mouth to talk. 

“What’s goin’ on? What’re you doin’ down there, Therion?” he asked, and Therion glared daggers at the two of them. 

“... Funny. I’m wondering the same thing, honestly,” he replied, looking pointedly at the woman. She shrugged, unconcerned by his tone. “I was just minding my own business. Having a drink. Like an _innocent person_ , when I was pinned to the floor here.” 

He gestured towards the handle of the knife, and the other two men glanced at each other. 

“Verily, an innocent person who wearest a fool’s bangle,” she replied, dryly. 

“Fool’s bangle?” Alfyn repeated, placing his drink on Therion’s table. 

The huntress arched an eyebrow. “Thou knowest not the significance of the shackle thine friend wearest?” 

“I’m not his friend,” Therion complained, but nobody listened. 

“Hmm... no, the name doesn’t ring a bell or anythin’...” 

“Oh?” the woman hummed, not expecting that. “Then please allowen me to explain. The fool’s bangle serven as proof of a thief’s failure. Any thief who wearen a fool’s bangle hast been caught whilst in the middle of a hunt. Therefore... it is considered extraordinarily embarrassing.” 

_Gee, thanks for really cementing it with that last line there...._

Alfyn and Cyrus made small noises of understanding. Of sympathy, of surprise, and— worst of all— _pity_. 

Therion bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting, avoiding their gazes. _Fucking idiot._

“... Now that you mention it, I never really figured out _what_ he was wearin’ it for...” Alfyn admitted, scratching his head. “He doesn’t seem to like it all that much, but that’s all I could really tell about it. I didn’t know that it had a meaning.” 

“Scholar?” the huntress prompted, motioning towards Therion’s wrist. “Didst thou also not knowest of the fool’s bangle?” 

Cyrus tilted his head, giving her a puzzled smile. “... Hmm? I’ve heard of them, certainly, but I have never actually seen one, as far as my memory serves. I suppose that I just never made the connection.” 

“Atlasdam is pretty rich, though, ain’t it?” wondered Alfyn, pulling up a chair. He cast a wary glance at Linde, but tried his best to ignore her. “You’d assume it’d be a pretty temptin’ target for thieves.” 

On the floor, Therion went to reach for the knife, but Linde paused her grooming, watching his hand with sharp eyes. He decided to wait. 

Cyrus nodded, following Alfyn’s lead and sitting down. “Yes, but Atlasdam hasn’t had difficulties with thieves for quite some time, surprisingly. While we scholars possess many artifacts which hold great value to other scholars, very few of them would be of particular interest to thieves by themselves.” 

_Not unless you know who to sell them to..._ thought Therion, glancing back at the knife. 

“How bizarre,” the huntress commented, taking a slow sip of her lager. “Master hath told me oft of thieves and fool’s bangles. Though,” she added, nearly in a mutter. “Master also doth love to embellish his tales.” 

There was a small silence, save for the sound of the other patrons, and of Linde’s persistent licking. Therion was sure that he was probably bleeding more now than he was when the beast first yanked him to the floor, but there wasn’t much he could do about it then. 

“So, uh...” Alfyn eventually said, setting his glass down. “What’re you plannin’ on doin’ to him? He’s my patient right now, so I’d honestly prefer it if he’d... y'know, _live_.” 

Her eyes took in the green of his mantle, and she nodded. “Aye, thou dost appearen to be an apothecary. This thief is thine patient?” 

_‘This thief’ is getting cramped and would like to sit at a table like everyone else._

“Yeah, he’s my patient.” 

“And upon meeting him, thou didst not know that he is a thief?” 

Alfyn shook his head. “Nope. I had no idea. But I’m not gonna leave him to die just because of that. He deserves my help, and I plan on givin’ it to him... thief or not.” 

She seemed a bit taken aback, but nodded. 

“Thou art noble, apothecary. Tellen me, what is thy name?” 

“Alfyn. Alfyn Greengrass, of Clearbrook. Pleased to meet ya!” 

She smiled for the first time that afternoon. “Thou mayest callen me H’aanit. And the pleasure is mine.” 

They shook hands. 

“Anyways, H’aanit, this is my new friend Cyrus. He’s a professor from Atlasdam.” 

They introduced themselves. 

“And this is Therion! My patient, but he’s also my friend now, too.” 

_Not your friend...._ Therion thought, giving an awkward left-handed shake from the floor. 

“So, um, if I may...” Alfyn said, scratching the back of his neck. “... Would it be possible to let him sit with us?” 

A minute later, a slightly less irritated Therion was back in his seat, Alfyn fussing over his raw, bleeding wrist all the while. 

“Okay, look, you’re gettin’ salve on it whether you want it or not,” Alfyn said, digging the pot out of his bag. “I’m sure that the kitty—” 

“Linde,” H’aanit supplied. 

“—Linde, thank you, meant well, but her tongue’s pretty rough. And I’m sure she’s pretty clean, but... y’know. Lickin’ wounds ain’t the most sanitary way to clean ‘em.” 

“Let me put it on _myself_ , at least...” grumbled Therion, taking the pot from Alfyn’s hands. 

“Sure, suit yourself. I’m just gonna check your stitches real quick.” 

“Oh, sure, let’s do that in the middle of the fucking tavern.” 

Alfyn unwound the bandage on his arm despite his mutterings. Cyrus drank some of his lager and smiled at H’aanit. 

“So, H’aanit, I gather that you are a huntress?” 

“Aye, that I am. Myself and my master aren two of the few hunters within the village.” 

“Your master?” echoed Alfyn, looking up from Therion’s stitches. 

“Aye, Master Z’aanta. He hath been my master since I was naught but a child. For my parents perished in a hunt, he hath been liken a father to me. It was he who taught me the ways of the hunt and of the forest.” 

“I see...” hummed Cyrus, tapping his cheek. “Is he around? I should like to ask him a little about life here, if he would have me.” 

H’aanit’s sharp eyes fell into something sad, and everyone became tense. 

“... Nay, I knoweth not of his whereabouts. He hath gone missing a year past.” 

Therion just barely suppressed a derisive snort. _Nice one, Cyrus, you pompous buffoon._

“M-missing?” repeated Cyrus, flushing a vibrant shade of fuschia. 

“Aye. He hath gone on a hunt of great ambition... in pursuit of the dread Redeye.” 

Cyrus’s eyebrows bunched as he thought. Neither Alfyn or Therion recognized the name. 

“... I confess that we have not heard of such a being before,” said Cyrus, and H’aanit sighed. 

“I confessen that I haven not prior to this, as well. Very little is known about its nature. I knoweth not where to finden it.” 

It was an unfortunate scenario. And Therion knew exactly where this was going to lead... 

“Well, how about this?” Alfyn proposed, and Therion sighed. _How did I just **know?**_ “We’re all off on a little journey towards the East, and then we might just end up loopin’ back down towards the South after that. So, if ya wanted to take a look for your master over that way, then you could always come along with us!” 

_There it is. What a shocker._

__H’aanit blinked, surprised, then set her glass down._ _

____

____

“Truly? Thou mindest not if I joined thy party?” 

_I mind_ , thought Therion, but he didn’t say it. Why bother. The end result here would be the same as the last one. He’d be displeased, and Alfyn and Cyrus would be overjoyed... and she would come with them anyways. 

Sure enough, the other two men were more than pleased to welcome her to the group. And Therion, well, he supposed he wasn’t _mad_ , since she seemed much less talkative then the other two. And she seemed more capable than Alfyn at keeping monsters at bay, which was nice. Cyrus’s elemental attacks were strong, sure, but they weren’t always appropriate, depending on the environment, or even the enemy in question. And Therion, admittedly, preferred not fighting if he could help it. 

So, fine. This was fine. As long as she didn’t try to make friends with him, as well, like everyone _else_ seemed so determined to fucking do. 

“The fact that you have decided to join us is actually quite a blessing, H'aanit,” said Cyrus, gracious once more. “There have been an influx of monsters on the far edges of the Flatlands, and the three of us are not terribly competent in fighting them. We are immensely grateful that you’ll be coming along.” 

She smiled once more, showing her teeth. “I ought to be the one who gives thanks to thee. If thou hadst not paid our hamlet a visit, perhaps I would not have found the resolution to leaven S’warkii. I thanke thee.” 

The barmaid came over and refilled their drinks from her pitcher. Alfyn took his glass, but didn't drink yet. 

“Shucks, I think it's Therion we've gotta thank.” he said, receiving a confused stare from the man in question. “After all, if it weren't for him, we wouldn't have known to talk to ya! So hey, thanks, Therion!” 

Alfyn raised his glass, and everyone else did, as well. Therion mirrored them without thinking. 

“Shall we toast, then?” said Cyrus. “To our new team?” 

“Sure! To our team, and to Therion for accidentally makin' our team in the first place!” 

They tapped glasses with a clink, calling out (or mumbling) their various cheers, and as he tipped his cup back and drank, Therion realized that nobody had ever done anything like this for him before. Not in his name, in his honour, for something _he_ did. 

It was new, and embarrassing, and kind of weird, but Therion couldn't bring himself to hate it. He couldn't hate the static crackle in his head that the lager left him with, nor the mooching off of Cyrus's wealth, nor the gentle numbness that Alfyn's salve lent his raw skin. He didn't dislike sleeping in real beds, or eating hot food, or knowing that a monster ambush wasn't anywhere near as deadly now as it would normally be. And while he missed the quiet of a life of solitude, missed being able to decide what _he_ wanted to do for the day, without having to alter his schedule to accommodate others... this wasn't too bad. 

It was only temporary, of course. Only until his poisoning wore off. Only until he got to Noblecourt. Only until he parted ways with Alfyn and the others for good. 

Only until then. And then nothing. And he would be okay with that, because that's the way things were _supposed_ to be. 

And he liked things that way. 

_And I have to like things that way._

In the meantime, though, this was tolerable, he guessed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there were four... plus a snow leopard.  
> We finally meet H'aanit! She's somehow so much fun to write, and such a horrendous pain in the ass to get right.  
> Thank you very much for reading! As always, next chapter will be up as soon as possible!


	6. It's All My Fault, It's All My Fault, It's All My Fault

It always ended with wind. 

Wind, and a banshee cackle, and the beauty of an end-of-summer sunset, of the magenta sky and the golden wisps of cloud and the redness of the stone rising around him. Orange like locks of ginger hair and green like a cape, salty like tears. 

Sore, like a dagger buried in his stomach. 

Stinging, like a blade dragged slow over his eye. 

Gut-wrenching, weightless like a body untethered and falling. 

Choking, acidic like betrayal and heartbreak, coppery like the smear of blood on his face and lips and belly, droplets of it floating above him, pulled up towards the sky like garnets in a crystal pool, and then, and then—

A knocking at the door awoke Therion all at once, heart pounding and remnants of a nightmare sticking to his brow. He reached out immediately, felt the mattress and the blankets and the solidity of the frame, took in that he wasn’t in the middle of a freefall (nor even in the Cliftlands), and glared towards the door. Now that he was sure that he wasn’t dying, his brain turned to more important matters. Who was at the door, what time was it, and why were they bothering him? 

“... What?” he called, voice still rocky from sleep, and he could have sworn that he heard a faint laugh on the other side. Low, slightly husky, very much a woman’s chuckle. 

_A woman...?_

“Sleepest thou still?” she called, with a note of amusement in her tone. “If I hast awoken thee, then please accepten my apologies. I bearen a breakfast for thee, if thou wouldst have it.” 

_Oh, right, the vigilante huntress. And her fucking cat._

“Well, I _was_ sleeping...” he grumbled, wiping away his sweat. _You know, until **someone** started banging on my door..._

“Oh, Therion?” a new voice called, and Therion recognized it as Alfyn’s way-too-cheery inflection. “You up?” 

“ _No_ ,” he rebuked, sitting up with a grunt. “Usually it _takes_ a moment for people to get up after they’ve been awoken.” 

“Aw, shucks, sorry ‘bout that... To be honest, we didn’t really expect ya to still be sleepin’.” 

_What time **is** it? Why are they making it sound as if I’ve slept until noon??_ Though they couldn’t see it, Therion gestured indignantly towards the door, exasperated. “Are _all_ of you out there?” 

Linde _mrrrow_ ed her answer.

“Yes, we are,” followed Cyrus’s voice, and Therion sighed. Of course they were.

“... Fine. I’ll get up,” he muttered, reluctantly standing up. He didn't want to get out of bed yet. If anything, he would have honestly preferred to crawl back into the warmth of the blankets and sleep for another couple of hours, nightmares be damned. 

But, he knew well enough that the three ( _I can’t fucking believe that there’s **three** of them now, what the fuck..._) outside his door probably wouldn’t just let him do that, especially since Alfyn was probably waiting to give him some medicine. 

Actually, on second thought, he wasn’t feeling too swell. Medicine might take precedence over trying to snag an extra little bit of sleep. 

He dressed himself and unlocked the door, finding three travelers smiling expectantly at him (or, well, H’aanit was just giving him a look of vague amusement, which was almost worse). All of them were fully dressed, and looked ready to leave. True to her word, she held a small cloth bundle in one hand, tied at the top. He presumed that it held food, of some kind.

“Medicine?” he asked, looking at Alfyn, and he passed him the bottle. 

“One panacea for a slugabed thief,” he quipped, and Therion glared over the rim as he drank. 

“Hilarious,” he said, dryly, passing the bottle back. “Talk like that to me again and I might just shove this bottle somewhere the light will never reach.” 

Alfyn, infuriatingly enough, just laughed, shooting him a wink. “Well! It’s already goin’ back in my bag, where it’s nice n’ dark, so while it’s nice of ya to offer, I think I can handle _that_ much.” 

_You know damn well what I mean, you cheeky cocksucker..._ thought Therion, glaring up at him with enough intensity to wither plants. 

“Anyways, you should try H’aanit’s breakfast!” Alfyn continued, apparently perfectly unconcerned with Therion’s scowling. “They’re like these little jam rolls! They’re _really_ good...” 

“Yes, indeed, I quite enjoyed them,” agreed Cyrus, shooting her a radiant smile. “Were I not such an abysmal cook, I might have asked to copy the recipe down for myself...”

“Thy praise honours me,” she replied, humbly. “I knoweth not what thine tastes are, so I hath maken a simple confection common of this region. I do hope that thou wilt accepten this offering.”

With that, she held it out to him, waiting. Were she more casual about it, he might have swiftly turned it down. But, her oddly formal manner of presenting it to him made him feel a touch awkward, and he took the bundle with a skeptical frown, if only to stop everyone from staring at him. 

“... Thanks,” he said, after a long pause. H’aanit gave a short nod, satisfied.

“We _were_ about to ask you, Therion, if you have gotten all of your things in order...” Cyrus said, his tone somehow a combination of both an elegant politeness and a subtle teasing. “... But, I realize that it would be foolish to ask such a thing of someone who has only just woken up.” 

Therion huffed and shot him a glare that was nothing short of hateful, but Cyrus’s smile only became defiant in return, curling into something closer to a smirk. Therion realized right then that Cyrus, pale and wilting as he seemed, was probably fairly used to dealing with difficult people, both as a teacher and as an academic. And while he seemed frail— were they outside and far away from innocent bystanders— Cyrus could probably cook him alive without moving a muscle. 

Maybe it was Cyrus he had to worry about. Alfyn was too stupid to kill him, but Cyrus might, if he became enough of a bother. 

“... Fuck you,” Therion eventually muttered, turning crisply on his heel to go back into his room. “Lemme get my stuff. Go wait outside or something.” 

The others left, thankfully, and Therion sighed. Nuisances, all of them. 

As always, it took almost no time for him to pack up and be ready. He did wash his face and hands at the bowl before looking back at the bundle H’aanit had left him, and he opened it out of curiosity. Within the cloth, he found two bread rolls, each about the size of his fist. They had been dusted with a fine sugar, and were a lovely golden brown. 

He blinked at them, wondering whether or not he ought to eat them. H’aanit had no reason to be kind to him, after all. He had been nothing but rude to her, for one, and hadn’t made any particular efforts to be friendly, or even just interested in what she had to say. On top of that, he was a marked criminal— one pathetic enough to have been caught in the act and punished for it.

... And yet, despite all that, she still brought him food. That she made. For no compensation, or reason. 

He frowned, shaking his head. No, it was probably just out of obligation, as she got along well with Cyrus and Alfyn. She could have been planning on making them breakfast, and figured that she ought to give him some, too, since the others might have complained if she didn’t. Alfyn, certainly, would have given her an earful for it. 

A moment passed, and he picked one of them up, turning it over in his hand. The outside was slightly dry, and a touch sticky from the sugar. It felt dense, as if something was inside. Alfyn had mentioned something about jam, didn’t he? 

Therion was still suspicious, but he gently tore a piece off with his fingers, examining it. There did seem to be a reddish jam inside. It smelled nice.

Hunger won over skepticism, and he popped the ripped-off part into his mouth, weighing it carefully on his tongue. 

It was... it was....

_Good fucking **lord** , this is good._

It was absolutely delicious. The inner texture was feather-light and airy, almost cloudlike, and the outer crust was delicately sweet from a layer of caramelized sugar. The jam, however, took center stage. Therion had absolutely no idea what kinds of fruit it was made of, but it was phenomenal. There was a light tartness in the beginning, but that opened to a sweetness so rich it was almost cloying. It tasted _bright_ , for lack of a better word, and he devoured the rest of it in seconds. The other one followed just as quickly, and he licked sugar off of his fingers, more satisfied than skeptical. Of course, he knew that it could have easily been a trap. She could have filled them with a horrible poison, and he wouldn't know until it was too late. 

Whatever. Alfyn could fix it, probably.

With that, he was ready. He exited the inn with a pleasant wave to the innkeep ( _Gotta keep up appearances..._ ) and found the others outside, clustered around a small cropping of rocks. Cyrus was holding the map, and was discussing something with H'aanit over it. 

They looked up as they saw Therion exiting the inn, settling their belongings back on their shoulders. 

“Alright, you ready to head off?” asked Alfyn, sliding off of the boulder he had been sitting on. Why he had felt the need to climb up there in the first place was unknown, but Therion somehow couldn’t find it surprising that he would.

“... Think so,” he shrugged, looking at the map. “Which way are we heading?” 

Cyrus tapped his finger on one of the roads exiting S’warkii. “We shall branch off of the path that we took yesterday. This one will take us north of Atlasdam, which should equate to a faster travel to Noblecourt, should everything go as planned.” 

H’aanit nodded. “Indeed, this shall hasten our passage considerably. T’would only taketh a few days, if we hasten.” 

Therion nodded, looking up at her as she spoke. Maybe his opinion of her wasn’t so bad, now that she had gone out of her way to bake them some of the most delectable things he had ever sampled in his life. Her dialect was annoying, sure, and her leopard still scared the everloving shit out of him, but compared to Mister Everything-Is-A-History-Lesson and Mister I-Have-Never-Stopped-Talking-For-A-Day-In-My-Life, an olde-fashioned huntress really wasn’t so bad. 

“Oh, Therion, didst thou liken the sweetrolls?” she asked, and he shrugged. 

“Who knows. Can’t say I trust you, so maybe I didn’t eat them after all.” 

But her eyes glittered with amusement, and she clearly tried to hide a laugh. 

“Oh, verily. Thou _definitely_ didst not.” 

Then, with a positively wicked smile on her face, she mimed wiping the corner of her lips before turning away, heading off towards the exit. Therion mirrored her and found some sugar there, and he flushed a vibrant pink. Alfyn howled with laughter, slapping Therion on the shoulder, and he decided that his opinion of H’aanit was terrible, actually, and couldn’t possibly be any lower. 

It didn’t take long before the small noises of civilization melted away into the sounds of the forest. Despite that, the woodland walk was lively, with conversations bouncing around just as easily as anywhere else. Even introverted H’aanit would talk, if a touch quieter than the other two so as not to disturb the wildlife. 

Walking with a huntress, Therion found, was a bit different than the clumsy, noisy traipsing they had been doing before. She was silent, for one, when she moved. In the forest, whether by habit or by choice, she kept a lowered gait, quick enough to keep up but soft enough to keep her steps almost perfectly soundless. Even nimble Therion sounded like a leadfoot next to her, unintentionally snapping twigs underfoot and stumbling on vines. 

She also knew the forest as well as if it were her own home. While the others got snagged on branches or scuffed at roots crawling over the path, she moved as if they weren't even there in the first place, as if she were somehow in a realm different than theirs. Plus, unlike the men, she could see most of the creatures long before they got near enough to bother them, and, upon finding that two out of the three found it delightful, she would quietly point them out upon noticing them. Cyrus would then tell the group an interesting fact about said animal, and Alfyn would chip in his two leaves anyways, regardless of whether he'd actually seen said creature before or not. Therion, as per usual, said little. But, none of them seemed to mind that he did, and the walk back through the woods was pleasant, for the most part. 

They eventually came to a wide clearing, all bare grasses and forest flowers save for some exposed rock and moss. The canopy overhead parted to a vaguely warm sun and pale blue skies, streaked with wisps of cirrus clouds and little else. It was peaceful, the only noises other than those they produced themselves being the trilling of birds and the hum of bees browsing the wildflowers. Occasionally, a small gust of wind would rustle through the meagre shrubs and baby trees, sending the grasses bowing and dancing around them. 

Therion supposed that, vigilantism and stupid dialects aside, he didn’t really mind the Woodlands all that much after all.

“‘Tis a good day for hunting,” H'aanit said, gesturing loosely before them. In the distance, over by a stump, a beautiful stag nibbled at a berry bush, and Alfyn made a small ‘oooh’ sound. “Were our group larger, I wouldst consideren felling it for our later supper.” 

_Larger?_ thought Therion, looking around him. Three men, one woman, and a very large cat. Four people, five creatures. _I think the group’s large enough, thanks..._

“It is an elegant animal, is it not?” admired Cyrus, already gearing up to give a little lesson on it. Therion rolled his eyes, preparing for an earful. “It's certainly not hard to see why a good many families and regions use depictions of stags, or deer-like animals on their crests and flags. In fact, perhaps most famously, the royal crest of the Kingdom of Hornburg depicted a two-headed stag, which was— and is— considered to be most unusual. Hornburg, after all, was not situated in a region that supported deer as readily as other parts of Orsterra.” 

“It kinda makes sense, though,” quipped Alfyn, and Therion got the distinct feeling that he was about to say something _incredibly_ stupid. 

“Does it, now?” prompted Cyrus, sounding very much like the teacher he was. “I would like to hear your interpretation as to why, Alfyn.”

“It's in the name, silly. _Horn_ burg...?” 

There was a pause, and then Therion groaned. H'aanit chuckled, shaking her head. Cyrus looked puzzled for all of six seconds before realising that Alfyn was joking, and laughed as well.

“But yeah, in all seriousness, I see what you mean about why it’s used so frequently,” continued Alfyn, still looking pleased from his joke. “It sure is beautiful. I mean, we’ve got deer in the Riverlands, too, but none of ‘em get anywhere near as big as these ones. I mean, this one looks like it could beat the shit out've ours.” 

“‘Twould be a different sort of deer, I would guess,” supposed H’aanit. “I myself have not traveled as far south as the Riverlands, nor even the Cliftlands. It is difficult for me to imaginen a deer smaller than our white-tailed sort.” 

_No deer in the Cliftlands. Not enough grass for them._

The deer in question looked up from its grazing, ears flicking to listen. Then, it bounded away, disappearing into the trees.

“Aw, looks like we scared it...” sighed Alfyn, but H'aanit shook her head. 

“Scared it was, but not by us. It couldst hearen us long afore now. So, then...” 

She reached behind her and plucked an arrow from her quiver. Then, she nocked it and wheeled around, drawing the bowstring back to her jaw in an instant. By the time the others had turned to look, she released the string, sending an arrow soaring straight into the eye of an approaching Birdian. It dropped its club and crashed into the ground, curling into the dirt before her feet. 

The men all glanced at each other, stunned.

“Thou didst well,” H’aanit praised it, lowering her bow. “If that deer had not given away thine position, perhaps thou might have succeeded in wounding me. Now thine body shall become earth, and shall returneth to nature.” 

It felt like a ceremony of sorts, and nobody dared to interrupt her. Even Alfyn, who had been seconds away from praising her reflexes, stayed quiet. The four of them silently watched the creature, which might have otherwise died pitifully before her, give its last breath with some dignity retained. 

“That was... very kind, somehow,” Cyrus observed, voice barely above the wind in the trees. “Even though you have slain it, it still feels gentle.” 

H’aanit nodded, solemnly. “The way of a hunter is not only a way of killing. It is also one of mercy. Sometimes... killing and mercy needen to overlap. But when such an overlap is necessary, death needen not be painful nor undignified, if we haven the luxury of choice.” 

They gazed at its body for a moment longer, then H’aanit turned away. The others followed, still in silent reflection. 

“Best be on thine guard, however,” she added, casting a glance through the surroundings. “Birdians are not oft truly alone. More likely than not, there shall be more.” 

_Great_... thought Therion, resting his hand on his dagger. 

They pressed on through the clearing, keeping an eye and ear out for any other wayward monsters. H’aanit advised them to keep conversations to a minimum until they were safely within the forest once more, where Birdians were less likely to pursue them. So they walked in near-silence, observant.

Then, when they were about twenty feet from the edge of the clearing, Therion got a prickly sensation in the back of his skull. 

He whipped around, and came face-to-face with a pair of Birdians. A larger cloud of them could be seen further behind, weapons at the ready. He took in a startled breath, pulling his dagger out. 

H’aanit heard the noise and shot one of them down as effortlessly as the first, but the second one swooped down towards Therion while she reloaded. He jumped back a few paces, dodging it, and his heel caught on something behind him. He stumbled, arms moving behind his body to steady himself, and the edge of his wrist hit something smooth and hard. It didn’t feel like a rock, nor a tree.

By then, H’aanit was aiming for the second Birdian, so he glanced back to find what he had bumped into. But, before he could get a good look at it, he received a faceful of an unknown, lukewarm liquid, and a sudden force slammed into his body, sending him flying several metres off to the side.

Therion let out a pained, confused cry as he rolled over the rough ground. Evidently he had stumbled over something _alive_ , and it didn't take too kindly to that.

He came to a stop and sat up, cursing and rubbing at his face. Whatever liquid the beast had spat at him had gotten into his eyes. It fucking _hurt_ , whatever it was.

Unbeknownst to him, the pain was the least of his concerns. When Therion opened his eyes once more, he was met with only white. His vision was completely gone. 

_Gone?_

“I can't... see...??” he murmured, trying to look arouond. His voice was slow, quiet, almost inaudible... as if acknowledging it out loud would somehow cement this terrifying fact into reality, somehow make it permanent. He couldn't see. 

Why couldn't he see?

“Therion!” a voice called to him, somewhere in the distance. _Alfyn_. “Therion, are you okay?!” 

_Am I okay?_ Overall, yes, he supposed. Nothing felt broken, and he didn't think he was bleeding too much. But...

“I... I can't see...!” he shouted back, unsure of which direction he should direct his voice towards. Where were they? Where was _he_? The impact with the ground had addled his sense of direction, and he hadn't the faintest idea of where the fuck he was in relation to the rest of the group. 

The monster that blinded him hissed. Therion heard the scuffle of footsteps on dirt as his teammates fought it, and the screech of Birdians descending upon them. Linde growled. Static burst around them. The sound of arrows being released snapped through the air. They seemed a bit busy.

“Okay! Hang on, Therion! We'll be there in a sec, alright?” Alfyn’s voice came back, floating over from somewhere to his left. “Just— ah, fuck!” he cut himself off, yelling as he dodged something (Therion supposed). “Whew! _Fuck._ Sorry. Therion! Just— just don't panic, okay? I can fix it. Just gimme a moment, alright?”

He didn't know whether or not Alfyn was just saying that to calm him down, but he clung fiercely to that hope all the same.

"A-alright..."

“More Birdians?! Oh, gods _damn_ it all!” cursed Cyrus, releasing a crack of electricity towards them. Therion felt some of his hairs floating in the static, could hear their grating screams, some crying out in pain. How many there were, he had no idea.

A few minutes passed, and he was about to tell them to maybe hurry it up a little, since, you know, he was fucking _blinded_ , but a sudden rustling from the bushes nearby frightened him into silence. His eyes flicked instinctively towards the sound, but he couldn't see anything aside from a blank white expanse. Whatever it was, though, it sounded big.

“Oh dear,” came Cyrus' faint voice. Even though he couldn't see it, his tone told Therion all he needed to know about the beast. Probably dangerous, likely huge, and, most likely of all, completely and utterly furious.

_Fucking fantastic._

Then, before Therion could think about trying to crawl away, it emerged noisily from the woods somewhere very near him. Branches cracked and broke under its feet, and the ground trembled under its weight. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. 

_Shit...!_

His hand instinctively flew to his side, but found nothing. The impact had thrown his dagger from his grip, and he had no means of finding it without being able to see. He had his sword, but what point was there in attacking blindly? If the beast countered his aimless swings, he'd be as good as dead. 

For just a moment, there was a heavy silence.

“Guys...?” he said, shocked at how small his voice sounded. 

Big mistake. The new monster screeched in response, kicking up the dust around it. Therion coughed, burying his nose in his scarf. There was a hard cracking sound from overhead, like a flag snapping in the breeze, and he realized that the beast probably had wings. A Great Eagle? A gryphon? _Gods, please don't let it be a gryphon..._

Just then, Therion could hear another noise, almost completely drowned out by the racket the monster was making. It was the sound of a pair of boots running hard towards him.

“Hey! Get away from him!” Alfyn roared, much closer than before. 

He heard him winding up for a swing, most likely with his trusty axe, and winced. Of course he wouldn't intentionally hit him, but being unable to see his weapon unsettled him quite a bit.

The monster approached Therion further, attempting to guard its prey from Alfyn. Something that felt like several curved knives wrapped around his torso, some gripping him so firmly that they pierced his skin. He cried out from shock and pain, hands flying up to grab at them. Were those the monster's claws? Talons? Whatever they were, they held him like vices. He pulled at them and tried to wriggle free, but quickly found that he couldn't. Doing so only pushed them in further, to the point where he could feel rivulets of blood coursing down his belly. 

The monster cried out again and lunged. He groaned in pain. Alfyn swore. The heavy thud of an axe clattering to the ground followed, probably knocked aside by the beast's wings. 

Therion was being pulled along the ground. He yelped, startled. 

“No no no no _no_!!” Alfyn shouted. It sounded as if he was scrambling to his feet. “Cyrus, H’aanit! Help me out here, _please_!” 

“By Draefandi, please, given me an opening!” H'aanit roared, presumably sending a Birdian flying with her hatchet. Therion heard its body roll over the earth. She sounded busy.

“I... I cannot...!” Cyrus' distressed voice floated over, bleeding anxiety. “I am unable to prevent my spells from possibly hitting Therion as well! It's far too dangerous!”

Alfyn swore again, sounding more agitated. It was a logical choice, but it still didn't do much to help Therion from his predicament. 

The pulling sensation got stronger. Pebbles caught underneath his legs. Therion had no idea what it was going to do next. 

“Oh, I don't fucking _think_ so!” Alfyn shouted, axe whistling through the air. The beast let out a great cry, swaying above him. Therion figured that he had managed to land a hit on it. 

But, while that might have been a good idea in theory, it ended up making things a lot worse. It screeched and lunged, and Therion heard Alfyn get knocked back once more. He groaned from pain, and stayed still for a moment. 

“Alfyn?!” called Therion, on the verge of panicking. _You okay? I can't see you...!_

With a particularly loud snap of its wings, Therion felt a great lurch in his core as the ground disappeared.

“N-no...! _Therion!_ ” Alfyn cried back, getting up again.

Above him, too high for him to reach, Therion let out a confused, frightened scream, holding tightly to its talons and shaking from terror. Below him, his teammates yelled back and forth, panicked, desperately trying to think of something. Therion knew well enough that Alfyn had no means to strike them down. Neither did Cyrus. 

The only silent one was H'aanit. Therion dearly hoped that it was because she was focusing. 

The monster started to fly away. Their voices began to fade, and morphed into indistinguishable shouts. 

Therion’s body was thrumming with adrenaline, shaking, unseeing eyes desperately searching for some kind of opening, some kind of solution. What could he do? How could he get out of this alive, without weapons, without being able to see? 

Without falling to his death?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know how.

_Guys...??_

Then, the whistling sound of an arrow piercing its body ripped a long screech from its throat. Its wingbeats became more erratic, less steady, but sped up, presumably carrying him even further from the group. Therion dearly hoped that it was dying. 

But then, a new thought occurred to him. If it died, then... what would happen to him? 

The monster started to lose altitude. Therion couldn't see the ground. That realization pulled another cry from his chest, high and half-strangled from terror. How high up were they? Over which terrain? Forest? Water? Rocky crags? 

He dearly hoped that it wasn't the latter. Once was enough. 

They were definitely descending now. The monster was making small, pained sounds, but continued to flap its wings. H’aanit had mortally wounded it... he supposed. He hoped so, anyways, since the alternative was to be dropped from the air, brutally eviscerated, and then eaten alive, if he hadn't died from the impact. 

He had thought of many possible endings for his short, shitty life, but being blinded and becoming gryphon (?) food admittedly hadn’t ever been one of those things. 

The beast seemed to finally give up. Its wings slowly stopped moving, and they began to drop. 

“Oh gods,” Therion said, weakly. He still had no idea where the ground was. For all he knew, they could have been a hundred feet in the air. 

“Oh... oh _gods_ ,”

The monster's talons loosened completely...

... and Therion fell. 

He let out a long, horrible scream, reaching out blindly to try and take hold of something. Anything. Anything to save him from the impact, from possibly dying for good. 

The fall was short, but he felt, for just a moment, the sweltering summer air of the Cliftlands whipping through his hair. Even though he wasn't there, it was impossible... he swore that he could hear _him_ laughing above him, the sound echoing wildly through the canyons, chasing him all the way down to... to.... 

An incredibly loud snapping noise jolted Therion from his memory, and his left arm was slammed upwards, smacking the side of his face. Then, his ribs took an impact, then his side. This continued again and again, several more times, until he eventually crashed down onto the floor in what felt like a pile of leaves. He dimly realized that he must have had his fall broken by a tree. A larger crashing sound came from nearby, presumably from the beast, and then there was an overwhelming silence. But, he wasn’t dead. 

Why wasn’t he dead?

Pain radiated from every cell in his body. All of the wind had been knocked from his lungs. Therion lay perfectly still, stunned, aside from uselessly opening and closing his mouth to try and breathe. 

Finally, after what felt like a small eternity, he managed to take in a breath, but...

“—Gggh....” 

He couldn’t breathe in all the way. It seemed that his ribs had taken more of a beating than he thought— a sharp, stabbing pain stopped him from taking a full breath, crushing his lungs like paper.

Therion hissed out a curse, biting his cheek to stave off the pain. He had probably broken some ribs. But, as he found that he could still wiggle his toes, he didn't seem to have broken his spine. _Thank Aeber for that..._

After a moment taken to recover, he carefully sat up, and immediately cried out from agony, nearly falling back over. His chest felt as if a sword had been run through it, and he had become aware that his left arm was in incredible pain, to the point where he wasn't able to move it. Though he couldn't see it, he was certain that it was broken. 

What a state he was in. Therion sat there for a moment, breathing as hard as he could, taking in what had just happened.

It was... absurd, honestly. He tripped on a monster, got blinded by it, and was then carried off by another monster. 

A weak smile pulled at his lips, wry and pitiful. 

_Hah, just look at me. Blind, hopelessly lost, with a broken arm and broken ribs. Maybe even more. Probably surrounded by monsters._

_... Now what?_

His smile dropped. What _was_ he going to do? 

For once, Therion was at a complete loss. How could he even go about trying to solve this? If he were _just_ blinded, then he could think of a solution. If he were _just_ lost, then he could scope out a vantage point. If he were _just_ injured, then he could fix himself up well enough to get help. 

But... all three at once? 

What was the protocol for _this_?

“Fuck,” he said, quietly. It was as much an admission of his predicament as anything else, and he hung his head. 

“Fuck...”

Blind, weaponless, lost, severely wounded. To top it off, he was next to a monster's carcass. Wolves and other scavengers would certainly start sniffing it out soon. Normally, that would drive him to leave, but his blank eyes rooted him to the spot. A blind man stumbling through the forest alone was as stupid as they get, and Therion wouldn't die a fool. _Not with this godsdamned shackle on my arm, at least._

Despite the fact that this wasn't his first fall, this one was still different. Back then, he had been lucky. After the fall ( _After the **push**..._), he had dropped into a river, swollen from recent storms upstream, and the rough waters cushioned him enough to prevent his organs from liquefying. So while he had been battered from the impact, knocked unconscious and nearly drowning, he was still in a better situation than this one. At least then, he had been witnessed by a lone fisherman and saved, nursed back into ungrateful health by the village doctor. Would he have the same luck here, in the middle of the woods? 

Not likely. Therion knew that. 

He hadn't much of a choice. So, he sat there and waited.

And waited.

And as he waited, he started to feel helpless. The pain was bad, but the _fear_ , though, the fear was the worst part. It wasn’t just a fear of dying, or of being eaten by the beasts of the forest, but a fear of abandonment so unexpected and so intense that it sucked the air right back out of his lungs and left him empty. It crushed his soul worse than the agony in his ribs or his arm, wringing out a misery that he hadn't felt in years. He was alone, truly alone, and it _hurt_.

Therion knew this feeling. He was well-acquainted with it, actually, knew it better than he knew himself sometimes, and he hated it. He hated feeling like this. 

He hated _him_ for teaching him what it felt like in the first place, and he hated himself for not just dying in the first place. At least then he’d feel nothing. 

At least then he wouldn’t _be_ in this situation.

Time crawled on. Therion was sure that at least an hour had passed. Maybe two. Maybe more. His empty eyes offered no clues. 

He sighed, short and painful. Though he didn't have much hope to begin with, it had almost completely fizzled out by then, replaced by the cold realization that his teammates had probably left him to die. He was a lost cause. They had probably determined that he'd be too beat up from the fall to be useful, if not dead... and Therion hated that they were right. 

He couldn't even make himself angry, since he _knew_ that they were right. 

Right or not, it didn't hurt any less, though. His heart ached from this new, small betrayal, and his sinuses burned. His eyes started to sting and welled up. No matter how hard he tried to stop it, his body, weary from the after-effects of adrenaline and the pain of his injuries, did nothing to prevent him from starting to cry. It was the cherry on top of the whole situation, and Therion tipped his head skywards. _Fuck me._

His tears didn't even wash the poison from his eyes. Therion felt overwhelmingly useless. 

He didn’t even know why he cared, because it’s not as if he really cared about them, but he couldn’t stop. Time passed, and he sat alone in the pile of leaves, crying bitter tears at his shitty luck. 

_Why do the gods hate me? What's wrong with me??_

“Fuck.... me.....”

Crying was normally a fairly quick affair for Therion. That day ( _Evening? Night? How long have I been here for??_ ), however, it only seemed to get worse ( _Why won't they save me??_ ). It wouldn’t stop ( _Because you’re useless, Therion._ ). _He_ couldn’t stop ( _You weak, stupid piece of shit._ ). His silent tears turned to hoarse cries, and eventually into sharp, hiccuping gasps ( _Look at what you got yourself into!_ ). He knew, somewhere in his mind, that he was having a panic attack ( _Now you’re going to die, you fucking idiot!_ ). It was probably the worst possible time for one, since every breath sent a bolt of pain through his ribs, but he couldn't stop himself ( _You’re going to die alone, and it’s all your fucking fault._ ). He couldn’t stop ( _It’s all your fault, like everything always fucking is._ ). His brain was alight, manic, wildly fluctuating between fear of dying this way, hatred for being left to die this way, and sorrow for being left there in the first place ( _Fuck you._ ). He buried his face in his scarf, too ashamed to be seen ( _Stop crying._ ). He couldn't stop.

_Stop._

He hated this.

_Stop it._

He hated being alone.

_Stop it._

He hated being abandoned.

_Stop it._

He hated being _betrayed._

_Stop it...! Stop crying!! Stop fucking crying!!!_

“Aaah-haaaah.... haahh.... nnnngh....”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t stop. 

_I can’t. I can't do this. I can't do this. Help me. Somebody, please... help me, please..._

Nobody would help him. Nobody _could_ help him. He was alone. Completely alone.

But, gods, he didn’t _want_ to be. He didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to die alone. Not like this, not here, not in this much pain.

_Why am I alone? Where are they? Where are they, where are they? Why did they leave me to die? Why did they do this to me? Why do the gods hate me so much, what did I do?! What’s wrong with me?! What did I do to deserve this, why me, why, why, why?!_

In between his ragged breaths, he heard wolves howling in the distance. A new wave of terror overtook him, and his panic attack worsened. His free hand covered his mouth, muffling his gasps. _Shit. Shit! I’m going to die. I’m going to die!! Where is everyone? Where are they? Where are they?? Why can’t I see, why can’t I move, why can’t I breathe? Why? Why can’t I fix this? Why can’t I think of anything?! What the fuck is **wrong** with me?!_

_Help me._ Was Therion saying it out loud, or in his head? He couldn’t tell anymore. All he knew was that he was locked on those two words, repeating them over and over like a mantra. He prayed to just about every god there was, begging for some kind of miracle to spare him. Or, at the very least, to fix his eyes. After all, no blind man could be a thief. 

And if he wasn’t a thief... then what good was he?

_Take care of those minces, Therion..._ a sickly, familiar voice murmured, the ghost of a hand combing his bangs aside. _What’s the point of a tea leaf if he can’t see nothin’? What’s the use of one then?_

_... Nothin’, I tell ya. A tea leaf who can’t see or move 'is arms is worth less than a raspberry, an’ there’s not a soul in Orsterra that’ll take in someone as useless as that._

__

__

_Not even me._

Therion was useless. Useless, useless, _useless._

_Somebody, please, please, help me, help me, help me please, somebody, **please**....._

The wolves’ howls were much closer now. He shrank in his spot, trying to suppress his sobs into his scarf. Of course, they would certainly find him sooner or later ( _because why wouldn’t they, why wouldn’t they fucking notice me when I’m right next to a carcass?!_ ), but right then, in that moment, he could delude himself into thinking that they _might_ not notice him if he made himself small. Stupid as he was, he was holding out for some kind of miracle, some wayward wanderer, some kind of angel to descend upon him and save him.

Stupid. As if anything like that would happen to him now.

_Alfyn, please. I'm sorry. Please. Cyrus, H'aanit, please, please come help me. One of you, all of you, please.... I'm going to die, please, I'm going to die here if you don't help me.... I'm going to die..._

Some of the wolves started to growl. Therion had no idea whether they were growling at him, or some other monster. He shook from fear, unseeing eyes squeezing themselves shut. 

_Don’t... don’t come closer, please... please, please don’t come closer.... leave me alone, leave me alone, please, please, please leave me alone......._

Then, not too far from him, an earth-shattering crack split the ground apart.

Therion bit back a startled cry, shoving his scarf over his face. He heard several whimpers and bark-howls from the wolves. 

“You’d best be on your way,” a familiar voice warned, just near enough that Therion could hear. “Else you wish to be torn asunder by ice...?” 

_Cyrus?!_

Therion had never been so grateful to hear that soft, prissy voice in his entire life. Did they know that he was here? 

Did they... come looking for him? 

“I see the monster, but where...?” muttered Alfyn, tromping noisily through the brush. 

“Alfyn!” H’aanit’s voice followed, almost immediately. “He lieth over yonder!” 

_‘He’? Me?_

_Are they looking... for me...?_

“Over..... _Oh_!” Alfyn gasped, setting off at a run. He was loud, crashing his way through the undergrowth. It sure sounded as if he was heading towards him. 

Were they really looking for him?

The wolves snarled. Cyrus calmly summoned more icicles. Therion could hear them shattering and splintering, sending the animals running off in fear. 

“Therion!” Alfyn called, dropping hard next to him. The scent of herbs followed, confirming his identity. “ _Gods_ , Therion, I’m _so_ glad we found ya.” 

Therion was so shocked that he couldn’t even speak. Glad? He couldn’t imagine _why_ , for the life of him. 

Still, he was so surprised and relieved that it piled on to his already wild emotions, and, embarrassing or not, he couldn’t stop the new wave of tears from rolling down his cheeks. He hid deeper in his scarf. Humiliation could come after (and come it would). In the meantime, he figured that he had every right to look like a sniveling piece of shit. 

“Hey, hey...” Alfyn’s voice was soft, more soothing than Therion had ever heard it before. “I’m sorry we took so long. We weren't going to leave you to die. We’re here now. ... So, let’s get’cha fixed up, alright?” 

“O-oooka-aaay....” he forced out, between breaths. Gods, he sounded _pathetic_.

“But first, let's get you to breathe a little. You probably feel like shit, huh?” 

He nodded. He felt absolutely horrible, to say the least.

“Yeah, I can imagine. Sorry it took so long for us to find you. You were carried quite a distance from us... and the monster didn't _exactly_ fly in a straight line, heheh.”

Even despite that, they had looked for him? Therion didn't know what to say. 

He heard Alfyn rummaging through his bag. Vials and jars clinked together.

“I'll be askin’ you some questions. You don’t have to talk. You can just nod or shake your head if ya want. Okay?” 

Therion didn’t have the energy to be scathing. He just nodded slightly, trying to slow down his breathing further. Being seen crying was bad enough, but being witnessed riding the end of a panic attack was infinitely more embarrassing. Though, he supposed that Alfyn had probably dealt with plenty of people in similarly humiliating states. The life of an apothecary, and all that. 

Still, though. Not his finest moment.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” Alfyn asked, receiving a nod. He exhaled loudly from relief, surprising Therion. _He was worried?_ “Oh, thank the gods. That’s what I was most worried about... aside from, you know, whether or not you’d... actually survive the drop...” he added, quietly.

“Why... did I fall...?” asked Therion, noting how hoarse his voice had become. _Why did you guys let me fall?_

Alfyn sighed, and he could hear the regret in his voice. “Well, we didn’t have much of a choice, unfortunately. If we shot it down right away, you would’ve landed on the open ground... which likely would’ve killed you, or paralyzed you. Plus, if H’aanit killed the gryphon instantly, you would’ve ended up crushed under its body. She aimed for a spot that would let it gradually bleed out, so it would hopefully lose some altitude before lettin’ you slip. ... Looks like you took out some branches on the way down, so that probably ended up savin’ your life.”

It was fair, he supposed. He was still upset, but it was fair.

Now that he thought of it, he was surprised at how much planning they had put into his rescue. After all, they could have just cut their losses and let the gryphon carry him off and be done with it. They easily could have done that.

But, they didn't.

“ .... I’m sorry that this happened, Therion,” Alfyn said, sincerely, before resuming his digging through his bag.

Therion didn’t reply. But, he didn’t reject his apology.

“I’m guessin’ the blinding poison hasn’t worn off yet?” Alfyn asked. The sound of vials shifting together could be heard. 

Therion shook his head, wiping at his face with his free arm. His skin was sticky with tears and snot and sweat. Overall, he felt pretty disgusting. 

“Didn't think so. Alrighty, then I’ve got a tincture for ya. This should reverse the clouding effect. It’s gonna be administered to your eyes with an eyedropper. It might be a bit startlin’, but it won’t hurt. Alright?” 

“Al... right...” 

“Great. So lemme open this up...” he muttered, carefully unscrewing the top. Therion could hear the soft clinking of the eyedropper hitting the side of the bottle.

Alfyn paused then, as if he had just thought of something. Therion, of course, couldn’t see what had suddenly caused him to stop, and nearly asked what the hold-up was about. But, before he did, Alfyn merely chuckled, as if something about this whole situation was amusing. 

“Um... I’ll need to see _both_ of your eyes, if that’s alright.” 

Right, of course. He wordlessly pushed his bangs back with his working arm, feeling distinctly exposed. 

Alfyn was still for a moment. Therion prayed that he didn’t try to ask about the scar.

Then, a warm, calloused hand lightly touched the edges of his right eye socket, drawing a small gasp from Therion. 

“Sorry, shoulda warned ya...” Alfyn apologized. His voice sounded much closer now. He could feel the soft puffs of his breathing smooth over his cheek as he spoke. Therion had absolutely no idea where to look. “So I'm gonna have you tip your head back a little.... Yeah, just like that. Perfect. I'm gonna start with your right eye, okay? Blink now, if you need to.” 

Therion obliged silently. He felt too shitty to be overly difficult.

“Great, thanks. Oh, and just a heads-up: the drops might be a lil’ chilly. Here's the first one...” 

While delicately pushing his eyelids open, Alfyn administered a drop into his eye. True to his word, it was cold, and Therion flinched. However, he quickly found that it was incredibly soothing on his tired eyes and relaxed, letting it fall shut. 

Alfyn's hand moved to the other side. For a brief moment, his thumb caught on the scar crossing through Therion's left eye, tracing it as if mapping it out. Mercifully, however, he didn't say anything about it... even though Therion got the feeling that he wanted to.

Therion blinked a couple of times, and allowed him to treat his other eye. 

“Good. Keep your eyes closed for a minute or so to let it dissolve the poison, alright?” 

Therion was only too happy to oblige. Whatever the tincture was derived from eased the irritation almost completely, and felt rather nice. 

While he rested, the other two came over. 

“Right, I do believe that those dreadful wolves will leave us alone for a while,” Cyrus reported. “It seems that they're not terribly fond of ice.”

_I'd think most animals would be scared shitless of icicles bursting from the ground..._ thought Therion. 

“Verily, many creatures of the forest fearen users of magiks,” offered H’aanit. “I have finished the examination of the body of the beast. Liken we have determined beforehand, this beast was a gryphon... Male, an aged one. Many of the beasts grow frailer with the passing of time, and yet gryphons are not wont to do so. ... We shall leaven it to the forest to reclaimen.” 

“A wise choice. Its body will not go to waste,” mused Cyrus. “More importantly, how are you faring, Therion?” 

“Oh... fantastic. Feel like a million leaves,” he sighed, unable to muster his usual venom. Light sarcasm would have to do. 

“Thy tongue is as much a blade as ever. I declare that thou art perhaps more resilient than one might initially supposen,” H’aanit said, with a note of amusement. Normally, Therion might take it poorly and retort, but in his weariness, he could detect that she was being kind. 

“Lots of people... underestimate me. Nothing new.” he replied, shrugging. It was definitely annoying at times, but otherwise it had its benefits... especially as a thief. 

Trying to shrug hurt, and he winced, hissing through his teeth. Alfyn silently noted to check his body’s condition after.

“You got pretty beat up from your fall, didn't’cha? I’d imagine that something’s broken somewhere.” 

“Oh... just a few bones, nothing major,” Therion replied, flatly. 

Alfyn let out a small breath. Though his eyes were closed, he could hear the smile on his lips. “Well, you’re handling the pain pretty well, then, tough guy. Mind if I have a look?” 

Therion knew that his question was more of an order than a request, and gave a short sigh. “.... Do I need to have an audience for it?” 

“Certainly not. I shalle leaven you thine privacy,” H’aanit said, getting the hint. “As the day grows late, I shalle hunten our evening meal.” 

“Ooh, thank you,” Alfyn said, enthusiastically. “I can’t wait, H’aanit. If those sweetrolls were any indication, you’re a damn good cook.” 

“I thanke thee. Linde and I shalle not endeavour far,” she said, retreating somewhere in the forest. Her footsteps were nearly silent, melting away in an instant. It was the same with Linde, who, despite her size, was as quiet as a ghost. Therion, of course, had no idea where they went. 

“M-my apologies. I did not mean to intrude...” said Cyrus, a bit awkwardly. “I... I think that I will... ah, sit over there and read more of my book. Do let me know when you two are ready to move out once more,” he added, also taking his leave. Unlike H’aanit, his walk was much more audible, and Therion could clearly hear where he left to. 

“Oh, you should be able to open your eyes now, by the way,” Alfyn said. “It's been more than enough time.”

Therion carefully opened his eyes, and a trickle of liquid escaped from each one. The effect was amazing. It was similar to wiping a fogged window with a cloth, revealing the world outside. Were he not tired of crying, the relief of being able to see again might have wrought out a new wave of tears.

“All better?” asked Alfyn, receiving a slow, stunned nod. “Excellent. Now, let's see what we're dealin’ with.” 

Now that the other two had left, Therion supposed that Alfyn would want to assess the rest of his body. Not wanting to have him do it ( _Because, weak or not, I'm not **that** pathetic..._), he reached up to pull his scarf off. His ribs protested, however, and his breathing hitched, halting the motion of his arm. _Son of a **bitch** , that hurts._

“Hey, hey. Here, lemme get that for ya,” Alfyn said, kindly. 

“Piss off. I can do it,” Therion muttered, lacking his usual venom. 

Alfyn let him, but watched with a skeptical frown. Therion grit his teeth and pushed his way through the process, gradually unraveling the scarf. 

“Y’know... you don't need to prove it to me,” Alfyn said, quietly. “You're injured. You're allowed to let other people help.” 

Therion didn't reply. He just finished pulling his scarf off, breaths short and shallow. This didn't escape the notice of Alfyn, unsurprisingly.

“Your ribs hurt, don't they?” he deduced. He wouldn't be surprised if he had received some broken ribs from his fall. 

“Mm-hm.” 

Alfyn clicked his tongue from disapproval. “Well, then you _really_ oughta just let me do it. Sit back and be a good patient, okay? I’m tryin’ to help ya.” 

He received a flat, cool stare. However, the pain eventually got to him, and Therion lowered his arm, if reluctantly.

“You... you really wanna strip me that bad, huh?” he mocked, half-jokingly. 

Though his tone was slightly mean, Alfyn just laughed. 

“D-don't put it that way! You're makin’ me sound like some kinda pervert...” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I need to see your ribs to help ya, so _yeah_ , I've gotta take _some_ a your clothes off.”

“... Maybe you really are a pervert, and I just don’t know it,” Therion pointed out, still holding only the barest amount of friendliness. But, it was enough for Alfyn, and he laughed, shaking his head. 

“Aw, c’mon. I like to think that I have standards,” Alfyn said, reaching towards Therion’s cloak. “I’m gonna take your shawl off, okay?” 

_‘Standards’? What's that supposed to mean...?_ “Tch. .... Clasp’s over there,” he resigned, jerking his chin towards the left. Sure enough, in one of the folds, there was a hidden clasp. 

With careful hands, Alfyn gently undid the loop and unwrapped the shawl, exposing Therion’s upper body. His white shirt was stained in several places from blood, and through the open front, he could see some fresh bruising over his ribs. He was pretty thin, but he was still a bit more toned than he had expected, and, for just a moment, he was caught off-guard. However, his attention was grabbed back almost violently by the state of Therion’s left arm. It was probably the most severely broken arm that Alfyn had ever seen, and he inadvertently sucked a breath through his teeth. 

Of course, that did absolutely nothing to reassure Therion, who hadn’t been able to see his own injuries until that point. Not that he wanted to.

“Well?” he eventually asked, pointedly looking at Alfyn. He seemed to be resisting the urge to look at his arm. It was a smart move. Acknowledging injuries often made them hurt worse. 

“... Well...” Alfyn eventually sighed, pressing his lips together. “... Nothin’ I can’t fix, but I’m not a miracle worker. I’ll set it back in place, splint and bandage it, and then.... we’ll have to let nature take its course.” 

This, unsurprisingly, was not the news that Therion wanted to hear. Waiting for broken bones to heal took a month, at the very least. Plus, he wouldn’t be able to do anything. No fighting, no sneaking around, and, worst of all, no thievery. Then what? 

Alfyn saw his expression darken. As an apothecary, it felt bad. He wanted to help, of course, but his healing was limited to practical means. Magical healing wasn’t in his scope of capabilities, unfortunately. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, sighing once more. “... Look, I’ll definitely do my best, but unless we stumble across a cleric, there isn’t much we can do. In the meantime, I’m gonna have to set your arm back in place, okay?” 

_Set it back....??_ For a fraction of a second, a tinge of anxiety crept through Therion’s eyes.

“Have you ever broken anything before?” inquired Alfyn, receiving a nod.

“Well, yeah. Wrist, ankle, fingers. Shit like that. Nothing... _major_ , though.” 

“And I’m guessin’ you didn’t see an apothecary for those, didja?” 

Therion scoffed, as if he had asked a ridiculous question. “No. Most of them don’t give out their services for free. Or, you know, cater to _thieves_.” 

After a pause, Alfyn let out another breath, giving a rueful smile. “Well, then you’re gonna hate me a whole lot real soon. ... Can you stand up?” 

Therion, already hating him a bit, carefully set his feet underneath him. His ribs ached, and he let out a short groan of pain, but he managed to force himself up before Alfyn could help. 

“Oookay, so...” Alfyn said, hands on hips. “Right now, your arm is broken in two spots, and is bending in a spot where it shouldn’t be. If we just leave it like that, you’re gonna end up with some pretty serious problems later on.”

“Mhm,” That much he could have guessed. 

“As far as I can tell, it’s just your forearm that’s broken. So, I’m gonna take your upper arm in one hand, and I’ll take your hand in the other. Then, I’m gonna pull your hand downwards until your arm bones have gone back to where they need to go.” 

Therion, in all honesty, absolutely _loathed_ the sound of this. But, what else was there to do here? He reluctantly nodded, closing his eyes. _Let’s just get this over with._

Like Alfyn said, he took his bicep in one hand, holding it firmly in place. He winced when Alfyn’s hand took his own. A ripple of pain coursed up his bones, deep and aching. 

_And this is just from him touching my hand. He really wants to pull my arm down?_

“I’ll be gentle, but I’ll also be honest,” he said, quietly. “This won’t feel very good. But I promise it’ll feel _much_ better after. Okay?” 

_Hooray._ “... ‘Kay.” 

“Alright. Let me know if it hurts a lot, alright?” he said, starting to pull. 

He was right. It didn’t feel good at all. Therion cried out sharply as the bones shifted under his skin, fighting the urge to twist away. 

In the middle distance, Cyrus’ head whipped towards them, alarmed by the noise. Therion glowered at him until he hunched back towards his book.

“Hey, you’re doin’ pretty good,” Alfyn complimented, still pulling on his arm. 

_And you’re still hurting me._ “Sh-shut up, medicine man.” 

Infuriatingly, he just chuckled, continuing his treatment. Therion didn’t know whether Alfyn was the most patient man in the world, or the most idiotic. 

Perhaps worse than the actual sensation was the fact that Therion could _hear_ the bones moving and scraping against each other, and it disgusted him more than he expected. 

“C-could you go... _any_ slower?” Therion snapped, biting his cheek. 

Alfyn stole a glance at his face. His eyes were tightly shut, mouth twisted in a grimace of pain. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I have to go slow, else the broken ends end up slicin’ open an artery. It’ll be over soon.” 

At least he had the decency to sound properly sorry.

Soon wasn’t soon enough, though, and Therion was shaking and pale by the time Alfyn finished. 

“Well? How’s that?” Alfyn asked, steadying him by the shoulders. “It’ll still hurt, but can you move your fingers?” 

Therion tried, hesitantly, and found that he now could. Alfyn seemed satisfied.

“Alright, good. So I’ll have to put a splint on that for ya, to keep your bones locked in place. Lemme get it out real quick.” 

Alfyn knelt down to leaf through his bag once more. 

“You okay up there? Need to sit down or anythin’?” Alfyn asked, glancing up at Therion. 

“J-just hurry up and get the splint, medicine man.” 

He had tried as hard as he could to be scathing, but it was like water off a duck’s back. Alfyn just shrugged and kept digging. 

When he stood back up, he held a roll of cloth and two wooden splinting boards. They were smooth, flattened, and slightly curved. Perfect for a forearm.

“Alrighty then, so I’m gonna need your help for this part,” Alfyn declared, passing him one of the boards. “What I’m gonna have you do is hold one of those along the underside of your arm. I’m going to put the other one on the top side, and I’ll secure ‘em in place with the cloth here. Sound good?” 

“... S-sure,” Therion said, delicately holding the board against his forearm. “... So... something like this...?” 

Alfyn smiled, giving a hearty nod. “That’s it, there ya go! Keep it right there, now...” 

He set the other board on top of Therion’s arm, balancing it in place as he carefully wrapped the cloth around it. 

“Lemme know if it’s too tight, okay?” Alfyn said, wrapping a firm loop around his arm. “It should be snug, but I don’t wanna cut off your circulation.” 

“... Mm.” 

_I’ll suppose that I’m doing okay, then..._ thought Alfyn, continuing to wind the cloth around him. 

“Right, that’ll do ‘er,” he eventually confirmed, tying a firm knot at the end. The boards were now completely covered with the cloth, and they wouldn't slide around. “How’s it feel?” 

“... Alright,” Therion said, flexing his fingers. There was still a terrible ache in his bones, and it didn’t feel _good_ , necessarily, but it was worlds better than before.

“Now that’s what I like to hear!” Alfyn replied, flashing him a grin. “But we’re not done here, so don't go runnin' off just yet. Now we’ve gotta look at your ribs, alright?” 

_Ah. Right. Those._ Therion’s expression darkened considerably. 

“I know. I’m sorry for askin’ this of you, but you’re gonna have to take your shirt off... or slide it down, or somethin’,” Alfyn said, a bit sheepishly. “I have to check the state of your ribs, and I’ll likely have to wrap ‘em.”

As he expected, Therion’s expression, for a second, bordered on outright hostility. But, as quickly as it appeared, the fire dimmed, and he sighed. He then started carefully undoing the lower buttons on his shirt. He was too tired to antagonize Alfyn more than he had to.

“I think I already know what your answer’s gonna be,” Alfyn ventured, helpfully. “but if you need a hand—” 

“Nope.” 

“Heheh. How’d I guess? But the offer still stands.”

Therion bit his cheek and pushed through the pain, awkwardly sliding his arms out the sleeves and leaving his shirt bunched around his waist. 

“Thank you. Now let’s take a look....”

There were several shallow pierce wounds from the gryphon’s talons. Alfyn carefully covered them in salve. Like usual, it stung a little in the beginning, but otherwise felt rather nice.

Once that was taken care of, he watched Therion’s chest as he breathed. Just by looking, he knew that the skin over his ribs was going to be incredibly bruised by tomorrow. His breaths were still shallow, and it clearly hurt to move much. However, there was no evidence of flail chest, which relieved him greatly. That was horribly difficult to treat without a cleric, and could easily end up being fatal.

“Which part of your ribs hurt? Any particular side?” 

Therion carefully gestured to the left side. 

“Right side doesn’t... feel great, either, but the left feels... a _lot_ worse...” 

Alfyn nodded, crossing his arms. “Alright. I need to figure out two things here: whether or not you have any broken ribs, and, if so, which ones are broken.” 

“And.... how will you do that...?” asked Therion, already dreading whatever he was going to respond with. Considering the past few things he’s had to do to him, whatever this was going to be couldn’t be good news. 

“Weeell,” he said, slowly. “there’s only one thing I _can_ do here, and that’s to feel each and every individual rib. Kinda play it by ear, heheh.”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me,” Therion groaned, tipping his head back. It was less of a question than a whined complaint, and Alfyn smiled sympathetically. 

“I know. I’m probably your least favourite person in the world right now. But just bear with me for a little longer, okay? We’re almost done. Promise.” 

_Shockingly, you’re not my **least** favourite person._ “.... Mm...” 

“So, I’m going to feel all of your ribs, false and floatin’ ribs included, starting from the top on your right side.” Alfyn detailed, gesturing towards each part of his ribcage. “I’ll go down, then move along to the next side.”

Therion nodded, steeling himself. Alfyn’s hands hovered over the surface of his skin.

“Ready?” 

_No._ “... I guess.” 

“Alright. Let’s go.” 

Alfyn’s fingers were gentle and warm. He pressed lightly along the length of the first rib, carefully watching Therion’s expression. That one felt fine, so he moved on to the next one. He continued downwards until he reached the last false rib, noting that the centers of his middle ribs seemed tender, but not broken. At worst, those ones were bruised. Annoying for Therion, but not a major problem.

Like he had said, the left side was in much worse shape. Judging by the sharpness of Therion’s voice whenever he pressed, the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh ribs appeared to be either cracked or broken. All of his false and floating ribs were perfectly fine. His back and sides were relatively unharmed as well, thankfully, save for scrapes and bruising. 

With that done, Alfyn took a new roll of bandages and gingerly wrapped his ribs, making sure to leave enough slack to let him breathe. The point wasn’t to tightly compress the ribcage. 

He tied a knot and tucked it away, and Therion’s shirt went back over his shoulders. Alfyn then took a second cloth and made a sling for him, then helped him put his cloak and scarf back on (despite the angry muttering from Therion). Once that was done, he placed his hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. What he had to say next was extremely important, and he needed Therion to understand that.

“Therion,” he said, as clearly and as firmly as he could. “I know that it’ll hurt, but you _need_ to breathe deeply at least once an hour, if you can help it. You don’t have a choice here. If you don’t, you could develop pneumonia. And then you’ll be _really_ miserable. Okay?” 

“Sure. Fine,” he replied, stoutly, voice indicating that he was more than done with talking with him for a day. “We’re done here. So hands off, medicine man.”

“Alright,” Alfyn said, lowering his hands. “Thank you. So, I’m sure you could’ve guessed this on your own, but you’re forbidden from fightin’, or stealin’, or any kind of exertion, alright? You can walk, and sit down, and sleep, and that’s about it. Nothin’ more strenuous than that. Got it?” 

“Mm,” Therion replied. He felt so horrible that he didn’t even want to _imagine_ having to fight anything else like this. 

“Great. And hey,” Alfyn added, giving him a genuine smile. “Great job, buddy. Maybe you don’t really feel like it, but you took that like a champ.” 

If he were to ask Therion, he would have thought that he took it like a little bitch, but he just accepted his words with a nod. Fine, whatever. If Alfyn was just saying that to make him feel less embarrassed, he’d take it, he supposed. 

Alfyn shouldered his bag once more and the two of them picked their way over towards Cyrus. He smiled warmly at them upon noticing them and put his book away, rising. 

“Well? How are you faring now, Therion?” he asked, and Therion made a short, tired grunt. That was the most they were going to get, for a while. 

“Understandable,” Cyrus nodded, smile becoming sympathetic. “What do you say the diagnosis is, Doctor?” 

Alfyn put his hands on his hips, clicking his tongue. “Well, by what I can tell, we’re lookin’ at a fractured radius and ulna in Therion’s left arm. I’m guessin’ either transverse fractures, or maybe obliques, dependin’ on what angle his arm was in when it hit the tree. I’m hopin’ it’s not comminuted, ‘cause that’ll complicate things a whole bunch, but we’ll see. Otherwise, we’ve got four broken ribs, more specifically, the fourth through seventh ribs, all of which are on the left side. Could be just cracked, if we’re lucky, but it’s better to treat ‘em as broken, just to be safe. But, aside from that, there's not much more than some pretty significant bruising, and some shallow lacerations. All of ‘em have been sanitized, covered in salve, and wrapped.” 

Therion’s brow furrowed, but Cyrus just nodded as if he understood exactly what all of those words meant.

“Splendid work, my friend. A thorough diagnosis, indeed,” praised Cyrus, delighted, and Therion frowned deeper. He wasn’t really used to feeling like the stupid one in a group... especially one with a grass-chewing _hick_ , for Aeber’s sake. 

“Aw, it’s nothin’,” Alfyn replied dismissively, giving an easygoing smile. “But, that creates a new set of problems. We don’t know if any a these breaks are more serious than they seem. And while I’ve set ‘em and wrapped ‘em, if they’re comminuted, or anythin’ like that, they could end up bein’ lethal, and that isn’t really somethin’ I can easily fix.” 

“Comminuted? What the fuck does that even _mean_?” asked an exasperated Therion, and Alfyn’s expression became abashed. 

“Ah, shit, sorry... I wasn’t tryin’ to keep you outta this. It’s a type of fracture. It means when a bone is broken and it breaks into little shards. Obviously that’s a pretty big problem, since they’re sharp as glass, and can cut open arteries and embed themselves into your muscle tissue. To make it worse, I can’t tell whether it is or not without cuttin’ your arm open, and that really isn’t somethin’ I want to do in the middle of the woods... and it's probably not somethin’ you want me doin', period.”

_You’ve got that right..._ he thought, scowling at his arm.

The three men were quiet for a moment, thinking. 

Then, Cyrus snapped his fingers so abruptly that the other two jumped, watching his face light up with an idea. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, slowly. “If you would hear me, then please allow me to make a proposition.”

“What’cha got in mind, Professor?” 

Cyrus, delighted that one of them was listening, lightly clasped his hands before him, prim and proper. “Well, my concern is that regardless of where we end up heading towards, it will be a long and strenuous undertaking for Therion. Therefore, rather than simply going straight to Noblecourt, I propose that we consider taking a small detour towards Flamesgrace.” 

Alfyn tilted his head, puzzled. Therion scoffed. 

“What don’t you people understand about me being on a schedule here?” he snapped, irritated. “Flamesgrace isn’t Noblecourt. There’s nothing for me there.” 

“True, it is not necessarily on the route to Noblecourt, per se...” agreed Cyrus, unruffled by his temper. “But, with where we are now, we are actually closer to Flamesgrace than we are to Noblecourt. It should take less time to get there.” 

Alfyn tapped his cheek, still not quite on the same page. “Uh-huh, you’re right about that, but why Flamesgrace? S’waarki is closer, and Flamesgrace has nothin’ but ice and... I dunno, a cathedral? I think so, anyways...” 

But, even as he said it, Alfyn’s eyes opened a touch wider from understanding. 

“ _Oh_! The cathedral!” Alfyn exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Cyrus, you genius! I get it now!”

“Well that’s wonderful,” Therion said, sarcastically. “I still don’t.”

“Therion!" he exclaimed, turning towards him. "Cathedrals have somethin’ that little churches usually don’t. As in, _clerics_ ,” Alfyn explained, eyes glittering with enthusiasm. “And accordin’ to one of my neighbours, who used to live in the Frostlands, Flamesgrace has some of the best clerics around.”

_Oh_. Perhaps Cyrus’s plan wasn’t nonsensical, after all. 

“... So we’re going to go to Flamesgrace, get my bones fixed, and _then_ head off to Noblecourt...” Therion outlined the plan, and Cyrus nodded in confirmation. 

“Yes, that was exactly what I was thinking. After all, even if we _did_ make the decision to bypass Flamesgrace and head directly for Noblecourt, your injuries would still require several weeks to heal completely, I would imagine. So, I suppose this new plan would save you time in the long run, wouldn’t it?” 

It would. Stealing the dragonstone in this state would be hideously difficult, Therion supposed, if not nearly impossible. And, while it might feel more productive to get there straight away, he also knew that there wasn’t a point if he couldn’t even _do_ anything. 

So, fine. They could take yet another detour, end up in yet another town Therion had no need to see, talk to yet another few dozen random people that Therion didn’t know. He’ll get fixed up, pick some pockets, make back all the leaves they’d lost over their trip, and lurk at the edge of a tavern, listening for tips and gossip and the rattle of coins in their pockets, and things would be fine. 

And it would be an _easy_ trip, and he would get there in one piece, and he wouldn’t need to rely on anyone while he did it, because he was _Therion_ , and Therion didn’t _need_ help from anyone. Needing people created openings, left him with a crack in his armour, and he didn’t trust anyone to resist slipping a knife in there and twisting it deep, finishing him off for good. Because everyone got sick of him at some point. Everyone got tired of his presence. 

Alfyn smiled at him, warm and genuine, and Therion wondered if he, too, might eventually get fed up with him.

Because he was just a thief, and he was only good to have around if he could steal things. So that’s all this was. Just making him useful again, so they could use him. So they wouldn't get bored of him. So they wouldn't get rid of him.

And the worst part was that he almost didn’t hate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ me: please.... stop making your chapters so fucking long  
> also me: No. 
> 
> fun fact! This was the very first chapter I wrote! That being said, the very first line would be about halfway down, when Therion gets knocked back by the mystery monster.  
> Thanks for reading, and for being patient in waiting for my updates lmao....


	7. Flamesbane, Windflower, Sleepweed

A night was spent in the forest not an hour's walk from where Therion had been found, and they set off once more, his stomach filled with panacea and bread and every inch of his body in some kind of pain. Alfyn asked him no less than twenty-five times throughout their walk through the woods on whether or not he was okay, and he answered the first few with words, and the rest with irritated waves of his good hand. He was in much less of a mood to talk than usual, considering how godawful he felt and how yesterday's events still hung a little  _too_ in the forefront of his thoughts, and everyone kindly gave him some space to cool off.

Embarrassment and agony aside, the day went nicely, all things considering. The weather was cool, but pleasant, with very little wind to chill them or monsters to send the others circling protectively around Therion's injured form, leaving him deeply humiliated and vaguely grateful both. Overall, it was something he'd rather not think too hard about, so the relative peace of the forest was a rare blessing.

As the sun began to sink, H'aanit spotted a dilapidated log cabin on the edge of the trees. 

"What's this? Do I spy a house over there?" wondered Cyrus, who had also noticed it. 

_ Gee, I wonder what else it could _ _be_... thought Therion.

"Aye, it appearen to be a hunter's cabin," replied H'aanit, starting to walk towards it. The others followed, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"Oh, that's good timin'!" enthused Alfyn. "Maybe we should see if anyone's around." 

"The windows are broken," Therion pointed out, rolling his eyes. "Don't think anyone's home." 

Of course, Therion himself had crouched in places in much worse shape than this one, but that was besides the point.

"Then I shouldn't see any particular harm in us potentially 'borrowing' the lodgings for the night, hm?" supplied Cyrus, giving a slight shrug, and Therion couldn't really disagree with that. None of the others did, either, and they came up to the building in a line, with H'aanit as the lead. 

Up close, they could see the condition of the place in full— dingy, mossy, with broken windows and missing shingles. What panes were left in the window frames were streaked with dust. In other words, definitely unused. Despite that, the door was locked, and Alfyn scratched his head. 

"Huh. Okay. So, uh, how are we gettin' in...?" 

"Yes, that is a wonderful question, isn't it..." hummed Cyrus, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger. "I cannot imagine that there would be a separate entrance, and the windows are not near enough to the door to reach the lock. I also wouldn't think that we might somehow find a key around here..." 

_ If you actually manage to conveniently find the house key on the ground here, I'll eat my fucking _ _boots_.

Therion carefully maneuvered his way out of his sling as Cyrus thought out loud. Alfyn seemed to be considering possibly breaking the door down, and H'aanit didn't seem to be trying to solve this at all. If anything, her eyes were trained on him, expecting something. 

"... What?" he asked, digging in his pockets. 

She smiled. "'Tis nothing. I haven the suspicion that thou havest thought of a solution that the other two have not." 

Therion pulled out what he had been looking for— a lockpick and a tension wrench— and her smile broadened. 

Cyrus and Alfyn's discussion ceased when Therion stepped up to the door and slid the wrench in. 

"You think a simple lock will stop a thief?" Therion muttered, slipping the pick in above it. It took all of ten seconds before the lock clicked and he opened the door with a loud creak. 

Even though he was starting to anticipate it, it still caught him off-guard when Alfyn and Cyrus immediately lauded him with praise, as if he'd used some kind of divine power to open the door. He ducked away from Alfyn's celebratory pat with a muttered _Yeah, yeah..._ , entering the house (with his right foot as per usual, because he couldn't stand the thought of possibly inciting some  _other_  misfortune to try and finish him off for good). 

The building was small and rudimentary, less a house than a shelter, but that was all they really needed for the night. Bedrolls were laid out, with Linde sprawled out over H'aanit's, and Therion lit a fire in the hearth for them, if only to keep himself warm. The fact that the others appreciated it and warmed their hands next to it was just a byproduct, just something they chose to appreciate, and Therion tried to pretend that he didn't care in the slightest that he was helpful.

To make up for that, he pretended to go to sleep early to stay out of their conversations, to convince himself that he wasn't actually on the verge of  _enjoying_ something that didn't involve just himself, and only dropped off to sleep after they had all drifted away hours back. 

The morning was almost offensively bright, waking all of them up at about the same time, and as a bedheaded Alfyn hummed and concocted the panacea, Therion was filled with a naive hope that, perhaps, things would start getting better for him pretty soon.

His first hint that his condition was worsening was a cough. 

Therion cursed the timing of whatever kind of cold he had caught, since his ribs were still very much broken and coughing fucking  _ hurt _ . But, he did his best to ignore it. A cold wasn’t a big deal. He’d lived through plenty of them. 

However, as the landscape grew whiter and the altitude increased once again, his health took a sharp turn for the worse. His cough got more persistent and he started to spit out mucus. He shook constantly from a deep chill, even with the ball of fire he created to warm himself. His pulse raced, regardless of how slowly he walked, and his joints ached. Worst of all, though, was the  _ exhaustion _ , a fatigue that ran so deeply in his core that he even felt it while resting. All in all, it felt like a really bad fever, and Therion was livid. Of  _ all  _ the times to come down with a fever, it  _ had _ to be in the coldest damn part of Orsterra, days away from civilization in all directions. 

But, miserable as it was, a fever was just that— a fever. Therion was too irritated and too prideful both to ask for help  _ yet again _ , especially so soon after the disaster with the gryphon (and the mystery monster, and the Birdians, and the bandits...). 

So, he just bit it down. After all, they were only a day or so from Flamesgrace, so he supposed that he could manage. He always had in the past, after all. What would make this time any different?

The mountain winds howled around them. A dim, weak sun shone over them. Therion pulled his shawl closer, shivering. The flame he held beneath it flickered, buffeted by the wind and dying from his own exhaustion.

“Everyone doin’ okay?” Alfyn called, looking at the rest of the group.

“So far so good, thank you,” replied Cyrus, flashing him a handsome smile. Unlike Therion, the fire he created was radiant and bright, melting a clean path before them as they walked. “I’m no outdoorsman, admittedly, but this is hardly a problem... especially with the aid of my flames.” 

“H’aanit?” 

“Aye, Linde and I haven no difficulties,” she replied, glancing back at Therion. “How faren thou, Therion? Dost thou needen to stoppen?” 

_ Stop?  _ He shook his head vehemently. He didn’t need to stop. If they didn’t, he didn’t. 

Never mind the fact that he didn’t have the energy to think, or the breath to speak. 

He’d be  _ fine. _ He’d be fine, because he was  _ always  _ fine. 

Alfyn gave him a slightly skeptical look, but Therion glared until he turned away. 

_ I’ll be fine. Stop wasting your time on me. _

_ Because I’ll be... just fine. _

The pace wasn’t strenuous. If anything, it had slowed to accommodate him and his injuries. Nobody aside from Therion himself minded, really, and when the first night in the Frostlands came, H’aanit showed them how to create a shelter in a snowdrift that was warm enough to let them sleep at night in relative comfort... all things considering. 

Well, all of them slept fine aside from Therion, but that was hardly anything new. 

Usual insomnia aside, however, that night was different. Therion was forced to come to the realization that he wasn't suffering from a mere cold. He had no idea what it actually was, but no night had ever felt longer to him than that one in the snow, heart pounding from exhaustion and body quaking from cold, aching from pain. 

Skin crawling from hate. Nails digging hard underneath his bangle.

_ We could have been in Flamesgrace by now, if you hadn’t somehow managed to get yourself sick. _

He knew, of course, that the only reason they were headed to Flamesgrace at all was because of him, and the thought left him so filled with humiliation and loathing that he thought he might throw up.

He could, too. Alfyn would wake up and make him something without even asking.

His chest hurt terribly, worse than before. He reached under his shirt with shaking hands and tightened the bandages again. They were pulled to the point where they nearly cut into his skin. The stabbing pain of his ribs softened to a constant, dull ache, and he laid there, sweating from even that small exertion. 

Fine, maybe it _wasn't_ a cold, but it was just a fever. Just another fever, like any other. 

Nothing Alfyn needed to worry about. 

Nothing that would slow them down further. 

Because it was just a fucking fever, and he was being a baby.

Therion coughed and wheezed and shivered all night long, clinging feebly to whatever scraps of sleep floated his way, and the dawn eventually came with a dull light. Aside from Linde, nobody was truly well-rested in this climate, so nobody really questioned how terrible Therion looked. 

Well, nobody but Alfyn did, of course, but Therion hid his coughing, drank his medicine like a good boy. He was satisfied with that, reassuring him that they were just over halfway there, and that Therion was doing great. 

He wasn’t, but he didn’t argue. He was too tired to fight back. 

They ate a meagre breakfast and set off again, Therion feeling about a thousand times worse than the past few days. Despite feeling as if he’d already been walking for a month straight, he resisted the urge to beg for them to let him rest, or to walk even slower. He couldn’t. He couldn’t rest then... even though ninety-five percent of him was constantly on the verge of collapsing into the snow and lying there until he either felt better, or froze to death. Whatever. Whichever came first. 

Ahead of him, the group talked amongst themselves. H’aanit laughed at Linde’s frolicking in the snow, and Alfyn happily described building snowforts with Zeph as children. Cyrus waxed poetic about the beauty of the ice crystals shimmering under the ribbons of fire he weaved, and Therion wheezed, and walked, and tried to ignore the dizziness, tried to breathe through the pain in his ribs. 

But it was fine. He was doing fine. They would make it to Flamesgrace, he would lie down, and rest, and be healed, and sleep. He’d shake off this fever, make the walk to Noblecourt, and disappear. 

It would be  _ easy _ .

His vision swam. Lactic acid burned his throat, made his mouth feel like it was filled with spit. His body felt far too hot, prickling all over, and yet still so,  _ so _ cold. 

This was  _ fine _ . 

A loud ringing filled his ears, drowning out his teammate’s voices all at once, and his muscles turned to lead. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t...

Pain burst behind his chest, seared up his bad arm, and he became vaguely aware of something cold against his cheek. Some part of him realized that he was no longer walking, and was on the ground. When did that happen?

A pair of hands pushed him onto his back, and Therion could vaguely see a spiky-haired head looking over him, touching his face, his throat. His mouth was moving, but Therion didn’t catch what he was saying. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the ringing sound and his wild heartbeat and his weak whimpers of pain from every cough, every desperate inhale. He needed to breathe more, breathe deeper, but it hurt, it hurt too badly, he couldn’t  _ breathe _ ....

Therion gazed vacantly at Alfyn as he checked his condition, barely noticing the warmth of his fingers pressing over his carotid. Cyrus and H’aanit were there, too, he saw, looking worriedly at him. He could see all of them talking, but wasn’t able to pick any words out. 

H’aanit said something while pointing behind Therion, and Linde came trotting over. Voices floated around him, muffled. Several hands took him at once, carefully adjusting him and lying him back against Linde’s warm body. Alfyn took the edge of his mantle and gently wiped the sweat off of Therion’s forehead, then checked his pulse again. He closed his eyes to count it, free hand tapping out the rhythm on the ground. 

A minute or so passed. His hearing started to return. He was still in terrible pain and horribly uncomfortable, but he no longer felt as if he was inches from dying, so that was an improvement. 

“Shit... He was at almost two hundred beats per minute..." Alfyn muttered, lowering his hand. “It's droppin’, but it’s still too high.”

“Personally, I finden such a thing to be unusual,” supplied a puzzled H’aanit. “Therion is hardly a layabout, by all that I haven observed of him. Not once haven I seen him to be winded.”

“He has been coughing for the past little while, I’ve noticed,” Cyrus recalled. “Though decidedly less frequently around you, Alfyn. I am no apothecary, but I would suppose that he might be hiding a fever.”

Tired as he was, Therion scowled up at him.  _ Fucking snitch. _

“Considerin’ everything, I’d suppose that, too.” Alfyn said, towards Therion. “Now just what in the world were ya thinkin’, Therion? You know I've got stuff to help a fever.” 

As he said that, he lifted his hand to press against his forehead. It was scorching hot, even in the frigid air, and Alfyn's shoulders sagged.

“Therion...” he sighed, and his tone was despondent enough that Therion actually felt a bit ashamed. Alfyn’s hand fell back to his side, eyes overflowing with worry. 

Therion’s gaze slid away, avoiding eye contact. He was starting to feel a little guilty, somehow.

“I'm... on a schedule here...” Therion replied, between breaths. “I knew what... you'd say if you knew. And I don't really...  _ have  _ time to just... sit around and wait to be better.” 

“So you decided to push yourself to the point of collapsin’?” countered Alfyn, incredulously. “Therion, I still don't know  _ what _ you're so hellsbent on gettin’ from Noblecourt. But whatever it is can stand to wait until you're feelin’ better. Alright?” 

Could he really argue, lying prone like this in the snow? “..... I guess...” 

“Good answer. Now lemme get you somethin’ to ease that fever a little.” 

He had plenty of ingredients with antipyretic qualities, and he settled on an essence of flamesbane for this particular tonic. Partly because it was a highly efficient component for fever reduction, but also because it wouldn't counteract with a certain secret ingredient— sleepweed. Perhaps it was a tad unethical to do this to him without his knowledge, but he supposed that he didn't have much of a choice. Therion was stubborn to a fault sometimes, and right then was hardly an exception.  There wasn't a chance in all the hells that Alfyn would let Therion make the rest of the trek himself... and there was an equally impossible chance of Therion consciously and willingly allowing someone to carry him. 

He felt a bit scummy for doing it, but he passed a dose of the spiked tonic to Therion, who hesitantly drank it. It was bitter— his mouth pinched in a grimace of distaste, but he pushed through it, swallowing every drop. Unlike Alfyn, he wasn't able to taste the individual ingredients, so he didn't suspect anything was amiss... that is, until he lost his grip on the empty vial and went limp, falling almost instantly into a deep sleep. 

“There ya go,” Alfyn murmured, taking the vial back. He had given him one hell of a dose for his weight, enough to knock him out for a good portion of the day.

Now that he was asleep, Alfyn carefully hooked his arms underneath his shoulders and knees and lifted him up. He was surprisingly light, which Alfyn was grateful for. How terrible it would have been if he had been the one in Therion’s position. H’aanit might have been able to carry him, but the others sure as hell wouldn’t. 

With Therion taken care of, they resumed their trek. Whenever Alfyn got tired, H’aanit would take over and carry him for a while. This exchange happened a good many times, with everyone occasionally stopping for a brief rest to ease their sore arms (or, in Cyrus’s case, to allow him to replenish his magic supply). It was exhausting work, but they pushed through nonetheless, and managed to arrive in Flamesgrace by the time night crept over them.

Therion remained unconscious for the entire remainder of the trip, and didn’t even stir when they checked in to the inn. Two rooms with two beds each were available, and H'aanit graciously paid for them, much to the other two’s relief. 

None of them even had the energy to go to the tavern. Cyrus and H’aanit immediately went off to bed, though not before Cyrus helpfully opened the door to Alfyn and Therion’s room for them. Alfyn thanked him and bade them goodnight, hefting his patient in his arms as he went through the doorway.  _ Gods,  _ but he was tired. A large part of him wanted to sleep, as well, but he knew, above all else, that he had a job to do. An apothecary’s work was never done, after all.

He awkwardly shut the door behind them with his foot and set his unconscious patient on the nearer of the two beds. Though asleep, he was shaking from cold, and his forehead was sticky with sweat. His fever seemed to have returned. 

Of course, in the time it took for them to get there, Alfyn had developed a hunch as to  _ what _ , specifically, Therion was dealing with, and he sighed. 

“Didn’t I  _ tell _ you to breathe deeply?” he asked, quietly. 

Therion gave no reply.

Alfyn sighed again, combing a hand through his hair. First thing's first, get Therion more comfortable. His outside clothes were chilled through, so Alfyn methodically took off his gloves, boots, and socks. His scarf, shawl, and arm sling followed, leaving him in only his pants and heavy tunic. He recalled Therion struggling his way into the tunic when the air started to get colder, batting away his hands when he offered help. He wouldn’t let him help with much of anything, really, forcing himself to sit up and lie down without assistance, among other things he shouldn’t have been trying to do alone. 

He’d lock eyes with him sometimes while he did it, as if trying to prove to him specifically that he didn’t need help, and Alfyn felt something in him crumble every time he did. It hurt to watch, hurt to see his eyes crinkle in pain every time he did it, and Alfyn didn’t get it. He didn’t understand why Therion was so adamant on  _ not _ relying on anyone, even temporarily. 

He couldn’t even give him painkillers, since he knew that Therion would chew off his own limbs in order to escape if need be. 

After a moment’s thought, he stepped away from Therion's side to light the lamp. A warm, dim glow filled the room. That was better. Now he could see what he was doing a little better.

Therion, Alfyn had realized some time ago, was a very prideful person. But, he was starting to get the feeling that this response, that this aversion to receiving help of any kind... wasn’t quite the same thing as pride. 

Perhaps he had always known, to a certain degree. Therion’s first reaction to Alfyn revealing that he never charged for his services was suspicion (which was something that even Alfyn couldn’t really blame him for). But, there was something else hidden in there, too. Something that he only just started to notice as of then. 

It looked like... fear? 

Alfyn knelt at the hearth and set some kindling alight, gently stoking a fire. Yes, it definitely looked something like fear. But what _was_ it that Therion so afraid of? Did he think that relying on others for help made him weak? That they would think less of him, or start to see him as something that needed to be protected? 

He was sure that that had to have been a part of it, at least. And yet, something still felt as if it was missing. The issue was more complex than that, though he didn’t know how, nor why.

_ But what I  _ **_do_ ** _ know is that Therion’s scared of help. Not just asking for it... but receiving it, too. _

Turning his attention back towards Therion, Alfyn decided that he ought to check his bindings. He had noticed Therion messing with them on a couple of occasions, and he wondered if he had managed to tighten them by himself. It was a bit counter-intuitive, but in his desperation to make himself feel better, he may have discovered that tighter bindings eased some of the aches of broken ribs, and while Alfyn _had_ warned him to breathe deeply, he supposed that he hadn’t specifically mentioned anything about tightening his wrap. 

_ So this is my fault, I guess... _ he thought, guiltily. He felt terrible. 

He fretted for a moment longer, then shook his head. Check the bindings first, then worry. Make sure that he actually did tighten them. 

He slid his fingers under the hem of Therion’s tunic and pushed it up, pulling it over his head as delicately as he could. His white shirt followed (and, after a quiet apology, his pants), leaving him in only his chest wrap and underwear. Sure enough, the binds were  _ much _ tighter now than they were when he last tied it off, so Therion had evidently tampered with them.

Alfyn sighed yet again, taking his bag off. He maneuvered Therion so that his lower half was under the blankets, and started to loosen the wrap. He’d have to warn him about that when he woke up. 

With the binds at a more reasonable tightness, Alfyn set about the next step: listening to his breathing more closely. He rummaged through his bag until he took out a short metal tube, plain and unadorned. Zeph’s father had observed, before his passing, that the sounds of the heart and lungs could be amplified using a tube of sorts. His finding would prove to be especially useful right then, because Alfyn couldn’t really place his head on Therion’s chest to listen, due to his ribs. 

Plus, he doubted that Therion would be overly receptive to him laying his head on his body to begin with, asleep or no, so it felt a little wrong. 

He leaned over Therion’s bedside and carefully stood the tube over one of his lungs. Then, he pressed his ear against the opening and listened. Pneumonia didn’t always play nicely and present obvious symptoms, but one of the most telling possible signs was a crackling noise on every inhale. Zeph’s father had described it as the sound of rubbing strands of hair together. 

He got lucky. Faintly, nearly at the edge of his range of hearing, he could make out a wet rustling in Therion’s lungs. It wasn’t good news at all, but at least he knew that it  _ was _ pneumonia. 

While in the middle of checking the other lung, Therion stirred beneath him, and opened his eyes to the most baffling thing he had ever woken up to— Alfyn leaning over his shirtless body, holding a rigid tube to his chest and listening intently. 

“What..... are you.....??” he slowly asked, voice hazy from sleep, and Alfyn’s eyes snapped open. 

“O-oh! Hah, sorry. This must look  _ real _ weird, huh?” Alfyn laughed awkwardly, straightening back up. “I was just listenin’ to your breathing. Y'know, checkin’ your lungs and all.”

Therion considered his words, then looked at the tube, eyes narrowed in a silent question.

“It’s easier with an amplifyin’ tube, like this,” he added, showing it to his bleary patient. 

Therion blinked, then reached out and took it, examining it. It really was just a plain metal tube, with nothing special about it. 

“You... use this to listen?” he wondered, turning it over in his palm.

“Sure do. It makes it a lot easier for me to listen to a patient’s lungs and heart.”

Therion seemed surprisingly interested. “... Does it?” 

“Yup! If you’re curious, you can listen to mine, if ya want,” he offered, before realizing just  _ what _ , exactly, had just come out of his mouth. 

He stilled, face turning the colour of the snow outside.  _ Dohter help me.  _ That was  _ easily  _ the most embarrassing thing he’d ever said to Therion, and he blushed, uncertain how to smooth it over. It was pretty weird of him to offer, wasn’t it? 

While Alfyn felt like he might die from humiliation, Therion didn’t seem to notice. He just thought about it for a moment before slowly nodding. 

“.... Okay, sure,” he said, looking up expectantly at him, and he wondered if he might have a heart attack. 

“Heheheh.... o-okay, well, let me get my vest outta the way. Can’t hear it through that,” he laughed, starting to unbutton the garment.  _ Though with how nervous I am, you probably could.... _

Therion silently watched him slip his vest off. Alfyn chalked his willingness to do this up to delirium from his fever. Speaking of which, now that he was awake, he ought to make him some more medicine. 

“You wanna sit up?” he asked, and Therion nodded, already trying to move. Alfyn arranged the pillows so that he could lean on them, and carefully helped him upright. He  _ must _ have been delirious, Alfyn supposed, since, while he looked displeased, he didn’t snap at him for assisting. 

With that done, Alfyn took a quiet, deep breath in to slow his pulse.  _ Relax, Alf. Don’t make it weird. _ He then sat on the edge of the bed, gesturing towards where his heart was. 

“It’s more interestin’ to listen to someone’s heartbeat, so you’d want to put the end of the tube right about here,” he said, tapping just beneath his pectoral. 

Therion’s visible eye was surprisingly focused. He carefully scooted closer, pressing the end of the tube where Alfyn had specified. “Like this?” 

“Yup. Now you just put your ear up against it and listen.” 

Therion adjusted himself so that he could listen without twisting his ribs. He closed his eyes, paying close attention to the sound on the other end. 

It was... strangely intimate, and Alfyn didn’t know why, exactly. Was it the warmth and the light of the fire? Was it the fact that Therion was shirtless? Was it the fact that he wasn’t listening to his heartbeat for any medical purpose, but rather solely out of his own personal curiosity? 

It was probably a combination of the three, plus the fact that Therion was.... really  _ close  _ to him....

“Can you hear it?” Alfyn asked, mindful not to speak too loudly while he was listening, and Therion nodded.

“... Yeah. It’s... kinda fast...” Therion observed, and Alfyn felt himself blush. “Oh, it’s getting faster...” 

“W-well, it’s not every day I have someone listenin’ to  _ my _ pulse!” Alfyn rebuked, perhaps just a touch too loud, trying to distract him before he realized  _ why _ he was so flustered. “Anyways, now that you’re up, I’ve gotta make you some more medicine for that fever. How’re you feelin’, anyways?” he asked, and Therion gave a weak sigh, passing the tube back. 

“.... Tired...” he muttered, gradually leaning back against the pillows. “.... Where am I... anyways...?” 

Alfyn got up and started taking out more flamesbane. This time, he wasn’t going to add any sleepweed. “We’re at an inn in Flamesgrace. Cyrus and H’aanit went to bed already, so you probably won’t see those two ‘til the morning.” 

His blank expression bunched up, puzzled. “... We’re... what? We're in Flamesgrace already? How did I... get here...?” 

_ About that _ .... Alfyn smiled dryly, adding ground purifying seeds, essence of grape, and windflower extract to the concoction, shaking it until the contents went milky. “Well, me ‘n H’aanit carried you. You were too worn out to carry on, but we couldn’t really stop where we were.”

“You... carried me?” he asked, and Alfyn had a hard time deciphering just what emotions were in his tone. He sounded surprised, embarrassed, but nowhere near as furious as he had been expecting. 

Well, he’d take it. 

“Yup. Here’s your medicine, by the way.” 

Alfyn held out a glass vial, which Therion took. In it was a cloudy purple liquid, and Therion squinted at it. 

“... It’s a different colour than before,” he observed, sounding a touch suspicious. 

“That it is,” Alfyn agreed, showing him the bottle of extract. Windflower was a delicate lavender colour, and the juice was no exception. “Now that I know  _ why _ you have a fever, I’ve added this windflower extract to it. Windflower’s used to facilitate breathing, and it helps with fluid buildup in the lungs. In other words, it’s good for pneumonia.” 

Therion’s lips formed a line. “You’re saying I have pneumonia.” 

“You sure do,” Alfyn sighed, and Therion’s expression darkened. He irritably drank his medicine and handed the vial back to Alfyn. 

“I should be apologizin’ for it, though,” Alfyn admitted. He pulled out a cloth and wiped the vial clean. “I never mentioned that you shouldn’t tighten the bandages too much.” 

Therion frowned. “.... It felt better when they were tighter, though.” 

Alfyn laughed softly, shaking his head. “I know. But when they’re tight like that, you can’t breathe fully, no matter how hard you try. That’s why I kept ‘em a little loose.” 

Therion didn’t reply. If anything, he looked a bit abashed. 

Alfyn didn’t know it, but Therion had actually tightened his binds for two reasons. One of which was one he had guessed— that it took some of the pain away. The second reason, however, was because Therion had assumed that Alfyn had fucked up and unintentionally left them too slack. He hadn’t trusted his skills, and now he was paying the price. 

_ Guess this is what you get for doubting an apothecary. Idiot.  _

He sat there in an annoyed silence as Alfyn checked him over again, staring coolly at the far wall. He felt stupid. Stupid, and frustrated, and weary down to his very bones. 

Why did he do this?

He could tell that Alfyn was wondering the same thing. Wondering why he had felt the need to push himself this far, why he hadn't even  _ tried _ to ask for help. 

The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely sure anymore. The answer felt a lot more obvious  _ before _ they stepped into the borders of the Frostlands.

“Lemme get you some water, okay?” Alfyn said, giving his shoulder a quick pat before rising. The warmth from his palm stayed on his skin even after he crossed the room, only dissipating when he pressed the glass into his palm. Therion, frankly, had no idea whether he got it from within the room, or if he had left and then come back with it. His fever was high enough that time itself felt fluid, ebbing and flowing with his focus. Alfyn’s concoction would take a little while longer to kick in, it seemed.

_ Oh, right. Water.  _ Therion remembered that Alfyn was sitting there, probably waiting for him to drink, and he lifted his glass. His hand shook under the small weight, sending dribbles of water trickling down his wrist, and he scowled. 

A warm palm over his steadied the cup.

Therion was too embarrassed to look at him. Delirious as he was, he still understood that Alfyn was having to help him with holding a cup of  _ water _ , for the god’s sakes. If he weren’t so thirsty, he probably would have refused to drink it for that reason alone. 

But, he was thirsty. So, instead, he allowed Alfyn to help bring the glass to his lips without a complaint. 

He drank it slowly. Neither him nor Alfyn spoke, which was unusual. He, too, seemed to be thinking about something. 

Alfyn’s medicine eased away at his fever, bringing his delirium down for the time being. He still felt disgusting, and it still felt as if he had pieces of glass buried in his lungs, but it was a small improvement all the same. 

“You’re runnin’ yourself ragged, you know,” Alfyn eventually commented, without any accusation in his words. 

Therion made a small noise when he took his empty glass and set it down for him, too tired to be prideful. 

“..... So are you, though,” he said, focusing on his face. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his jaw looked a hint more scruffy than normal. His posture was slouched, weary, and he wasn’t initiating nearly as many conversations as usual. But, Alfyn smiled all the same at his words, and Therion looked away. Being the direct source of one of his smiles was embarrassing, for whatever reason.

“Hey, now, are you worryin’ about me?” 

“... Why would I? I’m just saying that apothecaries need to rest, too.” 

“Heheh, can’t really argue there. I could go for a loooong sleep...” he said, around a yawn.

“Why don’t you?” Therion asked, desperately fighting off the urge to yawn too. “I'm guessing that other bed isn’t just for decoration.” 

“Hah, yeah. But I can’t just leave you here awake while I have a nap. You’re my patient.” 

Therion looked back towards him, expression sour. “Uh,  _ yeah _ , but I don't think I need  _ this _ much attention. I'm an adult. Older than you, actually.”

“Mhm, but  _ somebody _ has to make sure you stay outta trouble, right?” 

Therion scowled. “Why?” He loosely gestured towards his body, towards his broken bones. “What kind of trouble could I get into like this?”

Alfyn’s eyebrows rose a fraction, and he shrugged. “Gee, I dunno. Says the one who hid the fact that he was pushin’ himself way too hard on the way up here and collapsed... all while secretly dealin’ with double pneumonia. Not to sound rude, but out of all of us, you’re probably the least likely person to be stopped by pain... no matter how serious it may be.” 

“I thought it was just a cold,” Therion rebuked, defensive, and Alfyn frowned. 

“You  _ have  _ to have noticed that you had a fever, at least....” 

Therion gave him a flat stare.  _ Of course I noticed that much. _

Alfyn got the hint. “Alright, understandable, but even so... you know you could’ve mentioned it to me, right? My policy of not askin’ for payment isn’t  _ only  _ for poisoning, heheh.” 

Therion held his gaze for a while longer, then looked away again, annoyed. He felt like he was being scolded, and he didn’t like it. 

“... I didn’t think that it would be a big deal,” he muttered, staring fixedly at the patterns knit into the blanket. 

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“... You know I’m a little upset, right?” Alfyn said, seemingly out of the blue, and Therion’s head snapped back up to look at him. He didn’t look angry at all, nor hostile nor hateful, but he did look  _ tired _ . He looked like he wasn’t just weary from the trip there, or just from carrying him, but rather as if he’d been trying to explain a concept to him for hours and he just wasn’t getting it. He looked as if he had tried every possible approach to get Therion to understand something, every angle and method possible, and he just couldn’t see it. 

What was it? What was it that he couldn’t see? 

“..... Why?” Therion asked, unable to say anything else. Alfyn being upset was still new, and the thought of mellow, upbeat Alfyn possibly being upset with  _ him _ ... didn’t feel very good at all, for whatever reason. 

And Alfyn sighed, sounding for all the world that there was an immense weight on his shoulders. 

“Why? Because pneumonia can kill you, Therion.” 

He had absolutely no right to say such a thing with such a heavy tone. Therion had no idea how to react. Alfyn was worried about him, it seemed. 

_ Why does he even care, though? Wouldn't it make it easier if I were dead? _

“... I guess...” he eventually shrugged, unsure what else to say. 

“Would you have done the same if I weren’t here? If there wasn’t an apothecary on this team?” Alfyn asked, and Therion swallowed. Would he? 

“... I don’t know.” 

“Just because... y’know, I’ll never mind fixin’ you back up, or anything like that. I mean, I’m an apothecary, right? But it does worry me. It worries me that you don’t... really seem to care that much about yourself.” 

Ah, what  _ was  _ there to say to that without sounding utterly pitiful? Therion didn’t know, and he didn’t reply. Some part of him wanted to argue it, wanted to say that he  _ did  _ care, a bit, just enough to keep him going and keep him stealing and whatnot, but... 

_ Is that all your life is really worth? Existing, and stealing to forget that all you do is exist?  _

_... Wretched thing.  _

He knew that that was hardly a protest. So he said nothing.

“I know that it might be annoying, or embarrassing, or somethin’ you just don’t like all that much, but... if somethin’ else happens to happen **—** which I sure hope it doesn’t, by the way— then please... just  _ try  _ to let me help a little,” Alfyn requested, soft as the fire in the hearth, and he sighed. 

_ The pneumonia is your own fault. You can’t get mad at anyone for this. _

Fine. Therion shot him a weak glare, but didn’t deny it. He knew he couldn't argue back, and Alfyn did, too. He smiled once again, satisfied with his acceptance, and Therion was almost relieved to see him looking like himself once more.

The fire crackled. The softly falling snow made the silence outside feel deafening. 

“So... you really,  _ really _ need to stop by Noblecourt, huh?” Alfyn asked, and Therion gave a slight nod. 

“Mhm.”

“It's... y'know, it's not  _ really _ any of my business—”

“It's not.”

“—but I'm still kinda curious... What could ya possibly want from Noblecourt? Just, like, what's so important that you'll wear yourself near to death to get it?”

Therion sat in silence for a while. He did for so long that Alfyn got the sense that he’d really poked his nose where it didn’t belong, and he felt embarrassed. But, just when Alfyn had resigned himself to not hearing an answer, Therion spoke, barely loud enough to be heard. 

“... Blackmail.”

“Huh?” 

“You know how I'm supposed to be a master thief?” 

Alfyn tilted his head. “Supposed to be...? I mean, I'm no expert, but you sure  _ seem _ like one to me...”

“Hmph.”

Therion then lifted his right arm a touch, nodding towards the bangle. “And you know what  _ this _ means now, right?”  _ Thanks to that snitch of a huntress, that is. _

“Fool's bangle, was it? Yeah, now I do. Was it botherin’ you? Looks dry.” 

It  _ was _ bothering him a bit, but that wasn't really what he was trying to illustrate. 

“I was... tricked into retrieving something. Fake rumours of a rare treasure brought me into a manor... and they were waiting for me. Turns out the treasure was stolen a while ago.”

“Well that's just cruel...” commented Alfyn, unscrewing his jar of salve. “So that's what you mean by blackmail? They clipped that bangle onto ya, and sent you off to retrieve it?” 

“.... You've got it,” Therion sighed, tilting his head back. The back of his skull hit the wall with a soft  _ thump _ , and there it stayed. 

“Huh...” came Alfyn's reply, and the warmth of him spreading salve onto his wrist followed. Therion, too exhausted to slap his hands away, just let him do it. 

“How many of these treasures are there?” 

“Four, I think. They managed to get one back by themselves. And I'm off to get the second one.”

“I see...” 

Therion thought that Alfyn was really taking his time applying the salve, but held his tongue. Whatever. The room was cold, and his hands were warm. He could do it for an hour for all he cared. 

“D'you know where the other two are?” Alfyn wondered, and Therion frowned at the ceiling. 

“No. Why would it matter to you? It's not as if we'll still be working together by then.” 

Alfyn's fingers stilled. 

“.... Y-yeah. Yeah. That's right. I was just... curious...” he said, quietly, and Therion got the distinct feeling that he had said something wrong. 

Of course, nothing  _ was _ wrong with what he had just said, right? That was the original plan, after all. Therion would only stay with him for the duration of his treatment... and since they were both heading in the same direction, he might just stay with him, too, until he got to Noblecourt. Then Alfyn would continue on to Goldshore, Therion would head back to Bolderfall, and things would go back to normal. He’d be alone, Alfyn would be rid of him, and he would fall back into his usual routine. 

And things would be  _ fine _ , because that’s how he  _ wanted _ things to be. 

Right?

So why did a weight settle in to his chest when he looked back down and saw his image reflected in Alfyn’s eyes? Why did he feel disappointed when his hands gently released his wrist and let it fall to the sheets? Why did he feel as if he’d personally injured him somehow, or like he'd somehow ruined something? 

It couldn't be because Alfyn would  _ miss  _ him, could it?

Therion, starting to feel embarrassed, turned his gaze to the dark window. He was doing something wrong if the people around him were starting to enjoy his company... not to mention if they would actually  _ miss  _ him. 

But, it was their own damned faults for not keeping their distance. This was set to happen. Right from when Alfyn found his unconscious body, the clock was set. He knew it. Everyone knew it. 

... Did they know it? 

Alfyn gave him an uncomfortable smile, reaching out to pat his arm. But, just before his fingers made contact, he seemed to decide against it, hand coming back to his side. The entire motion was stiff, completely unlike him. Then, he shook his head slightly, chastising himself, and stood up. He moved the chair back to the desk and sat there, not quite looking at him.

“You... you should get some rest, Therion...” he said, voice stilted. “I'll, uh, just be over here. Picked some herbs on the way. Gotta... y'know, prepare them. Lemme know if you need anything, okay?” 

Something was definitely wrong.

“... Al... right,” he replied, unable to say anything more. Alfyn’s discomfort was soaking into his skin like a poison, and he didn’t understand. After all, he didn’t  _ really _ ... think that they’d just... do this  _ forever _ , right? He couldn’t have thought that, right?

Therion wanted to ask him, but he didn’t. He didn’t know what answer he wanted to hear. And he should have known, should have been certain of what Alfyn needed to say to him. That he didn’t care, that he didn’t plan on following him around Orsterra and patching his wounds like some kind of personal attendant, that he didn’t really like his company all that much, that it made no difference to him if he never saw him again. And if he did, then what did it matter to Therion? Alfyn  _ shouldn’t  _ have cared. He shouldn’t have started to like his company, shouldn’t have started to see him as a permanent fixture. 

Therion hoped that he didn’t want to stick around him.

After all, it would only hurt him in the end. Getting close to people only lead towards being alone. Therion knew that well enough. His father was killed in battle before he was born, his mother then later died and left him behind, whatever other people that were kind with him beforehand cast him away when they realized that he could have been contaminated with her disease. He knew of that kind of pain, and he knew of a worse kind of betrayal, when they inevitably tired of you and sold you out, squeezed your throat, dragged your own dagger over your eye, kissed you one last time just to taste your blood and the salt of your frightened, confused tears and confessed that he’s—  _ always _ hated you... 

And then you fell, and you dropped like a stone into the river. Because you  _ trusted  _ someone, because you  _ cared _ about them, because you... 

_ Did you love him? _

And Therion hated that he knew the answer, packed deep within the refuse in his mind he’s tried to burn, tried to throw out over and over again. He despised that under the gut-wrenching nausea, under the bitter hate and the deep injustice and the soul-wrenching  _ rage _ , there was a terrified sixteen-year-old, battered and bloody and lonely and crying whenever he looked at himself, at the empty place beside him, at the  _ scar _ over his eye. 

While  _ he’d _ never do that to anyone, Therion still couldn’t understand why Alfyn would let himself get that close to someone. It was dangerous. Trusting people was dangerous. 

_ He could end up like me. _

He could end up like him, and it scared him. 

Therion looked over, watched him delicately peel the leaves off of a sprig of an unknown herb. Too kind and gentle for the cruelty some people possessed, too naive to understand how badly people could hurt you, if they really wanted. 

Somebody _would_ hurt him, Therion realized. 

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe now, a certain someone will start to see what happens when he doesn't let himself rely on others...  
> thank you very much for reading, as always! i love absolutely all of you, and i can't wait to write more for you guys!  
> as always, I'm @courtcourtdraws on twitter! come listen to me talk about nonsense and occasionally post updates on this fic ahaha


	8. Sacred Light

Therion, as a wanderer, was used to a fair bit of miseries in his life. 

Not having a bed of his own to use meant that he often awoke with sore shoulders or a crick in his neck. Or, his sleep might have been interrupted by a midnight rainstorm pelting his body, or even vagrants or unruly drunks attempting to harass him. He had once woken up to find a banana slug inching over his cheek, and had also woken up on a few occasions to find some of his belongings stolen. Otherwise, in his day-to-day life, there were still more nuisances to deal with— the ache of hunger in his stomach, the surge of adrenaline that came with nearly being caught breaking into houses, the dull throb of bones long broken and crookedly healed, the searing sting of drenching his wounds with spirits and a rag. 

Waking up from recurring nightmares, breath rattling in his lungs, pain pulsing through every part of his body. The pain was unusual, but not unheard of, for him. 

The hands, though, were new. 

Therion, not fully awake, saw green fabric and gasped, trying to scramble back. A new kind of agony bloomed in his chest, one of his arms was caught in something and ached, he whimpered, and the hands pushed him gently into the pillows, stopping him from moving.

Every cell in his body hurt, and he didn’t know why.

“Therion, hey,” Alfyn said, soothing and soft, and his brain caught up, heart pounding beneath his skin. Brown eyes, not blue. The green wasn’t a cape, but a mantle. It was only Alfyn, and, for a moment, Therion relaxed. 

But, Alfyn’s hands being on him in the first place only created more questions, none of which he liked the possible answers to, and he scowled at him, panic giving way to irritation. 

“H-hands off,” he muttered, and Alfyn obeyed. 

“Sorry... I was tryin’ to wake you up,” replied Alfyn, a bit sheepishly. 

“Why?” asked Therion, but he already knew the answer. He knew the answer, and he didn’t want to hear it. This was bound to happen, he knew, considering how frequently he dreamed of him, and it was the main reason why he fought for them to sleep in separate rooms in the first place, back in S’warkii. Because he knew that it was only a matter of time before whoever he was bunking with would wake to him thrashing about, or whimpering in his sleep, or him sitting bolt upright with a wild emptiness in his gaze, the echoes of a scream on his lips. 

_ Please say that you were waking me up for some other reason. Like the inn's on fire, or something like that. _

“Well...” Alfyn said, combing fingers through the spikes in his hair. “... You just... y’know, looked to be havin’ a nightmare or somethin’, so I tried to snap you out’ve it.” 

_ Oh, wonderful... _ thought Therion, scrubbing his working arm over his face. After yesterday’s performance, the last thing he needed was for everyone to know that he gets  _ bad dreams _ . 

“Anyways, I’m sorry for startlin’ you like that,” Alfyn apologized, giving him an awkward smile. “Your medicine’s almost done, so don’t worry. Lemme just work on it for a lil’ bit longer, okay?” 

_ You didn't startle me.  _ “... Alright...” Therion replied, sulkily. 

Alfyn, realizing that he was in a bad mood, wisely decided to leave him be for the time being and resume making his panacea in silence. 

The process became solemn with a sudden realisation: As of that day, it had been a week since he had met him. Therefore, this would be the last dose that Therion needed. 

The thought was... oddly sad. 

Not  _ all _ of it was sad. Of course he was pleased that Therion would be cured of his poisoning for good. That was great news. It would mean he did his job right, and that Therion would be feeling better again (or, at least, better from one thing). 

But (and he felt selfish for thinking this), it would also threaten to sever the thread that had formed between them. Fine as it was, and as short of a time it’s been, Therion had really grown on him, and knowing that he would probably have to say goodbye sometime soon (or worse, wake to an empty bed next to his, with no trace of him having ever been there) filled him with an unexpected sort of melancholy. Sure, he was rude, and abrasive, and seemed to intentionally try to go out of his way to aggravate everyone. He ignored them as much as possible and acted out wherever he could, as if he  _ wanted  _ them to be angry with him. Yet, despite that, Alfyn had never once found himself capable of disliking him.

He just couldn’t dislike him. He couldn’t find it within himself to, rude or not. 

The mixture turned its signature crimson as he swirled the bottle. Therion watched him with a vague, unreadable expression, seemingly lost in thought. Alfyn didn't need to check to know that he was still running a temperature. After this, he would mix something for his fever. 

“... It’s been a week,” Therion eventually commented, and Alfyn let out a small, involuntary breath. 

“Sure has. This dose should be the last one for ya,” he confirmed, passing the bottle over. Therion carefully drank it and gave it back, scrutinising Alfyn's bittersweet smile. Delirious or not, he could tell that Alfyn was still in that odd mood from last night, and he felt something close to guilt. 

He didn't know why, because he shouldn't have still been bothered by it. But, he evidently  _ was _ , so he supposed that there wasn't much of a point to wondering about it. 

Yet, he did wonder. He wondered as Alfyn mixed his flamesbane tonic together, wondered about it when he passed it over with a faintly sad expression. He barely even noticed the bitterness that time. He just swallowed it back and wondered all the while. It didn't make sense. Why was he upset? Why was he  _ still _ upset?

“... Why?” he asked, without meaning to, and Alfyn tipped his head to the side. 

“Why what?” he repeated, confused. 

Well, he had already said it, so Therion figured that he had might as well continue.

“... You're still moping. Why?” 

Alfyn's eyes widened, shocked that he noticed, and then looked away, laughing uncomfortably.  _ Gotcha _ .

“I... heh. Huh. I... don’t even have a clever excuse for ya,” he admitted, pushing fingers through his hair.

“... So you  _ are _ moping,” 

“... Nah, I’m alright. And even if I  _ am  _ mopin’, I’ll be good soon,” he added, shrugging, but there was no conviction behind it. 

Therion frowned, dissatisfied. It bothered him enough that he seemingly wasn’t able to accept that their arrangements would be changing soon, and him lying about being okay only added to his discontentment. 

“You’re a shit liar, you know,” Therion accused, shaking his head, and Alfyn’s expression turned resigned. 

“Ah, well, you wouldn’t be the first person to tell me that,” he admitted, shrugging again. But, infuriatingly enough, he didn’t elaborate any further than that. 

Now Therion was really at a loss, since he was tempted to press him for more, to hound him until he finally confessed that he was stupid enough to  _ want _ to keep him around... but doing that would be the same as admitting that he cared enough to  _ want _ to convince him otherwise, and that didn’t sit too well with him, either. So, he just sat there in an annoyed silence, giving Alfyn a glare that clearly said that he wasn’t satisfied. And while he was sure that Alfyn understood that much, he didn’t continue on the topic, and Therion didn’t make him... yet.

“You hungry at all?” asked Alfyn, and Therion thought about it. Faintly, somewhere in his body, he seemed to be, but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. He was too sick to care, really.

So he shrugged, and Alfyn nodded.

“Mm, thought so. But, hungry or not, you’ve gotta eat  _ somethin’ _ , so lemme get you some breakfast, alright? Sit tight, now.” 

_ Why’d you even bother asking if you were going to do it anyways...?  _ ".... Alright,"

Alfyn gave him a smile and got up, leaving the room. With him gone, Therion mustered up whatever shreds of energy he possessed to crawl out of bed and slog to the bathroom. It was barely a walk, hardly seven feet away, but his heart rate skyrocketed nonetheless, head spinning with every step. He felt as if every muscle in his body had been taken out and replaced with a brick, and he nearly collapsed onto the toilet. 

It was almost funny, he decided. Now that he was holed up in the inn, and wasn’t actively forcing himself to keep going, he had absolutely no clue how in the  _ world _ he had managed to walk halfway up a fucking mountain —in this state— without any assistance. Even the few steps back to his bed left him panting from exertion, and the painful struggle to get back under the covers left him weary and ragged, if relieved. 

So, fine. Embarrassing as at was, maybe he would just sit in bed for the next few days. 

The door opened, and Alfyn came back with breakfast balanced on his arm. Behind him, the tall figure of the huntress followed, along with Linde at her heels. 

“... Wasn’t aware that we were having a party,” Therion complained, wordlessly allowing Alfyn to place the plate on his knees. It appeared to be a sort of buttered pancake with jam on the side.

“It was kind of an impromptu thing,” replied Alfyn, playfully, plopping back on the chair. “No RSVP needed.”

_ This is my room, too, though... _

“How farest thou, Therion?” asked H’aanit, crossing the room to sit on Alfyn’s bed. Her cold green eyes were soft from worry, and he looked away. Her concern, too, was humiliating. 

“... Shitty,” he answered, honestly, and she nodded. 

“Aye, that surprisen me not. Thine body is weary. Eaten thine breakfast, and resten thyself well.” 

_ Yes, mother.  _ He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. He’s had enough of being cruel to himself, for the time being. 

Linde had started to follow her towards Alfyn’s bed, but, just before she got there, she chose to jump up on Therion’s bed instead. It startled him enough that he nearly upset his plate, drawing his legs back to his torso. He cursed from pain, Alfyn caught his plate for him, free hand moving on instinct to reach in front of his chest, and H’aanit clicked her tongue at the sight, sighing.

“Linde, I knoweth not if thou haven noticed, but I am not on that bed. Comen hither.” 

Linde made a small noise of acknowledgement, and simply laid down, resting her head at Therion’s feet. Therion glanced down at Alfyn’s protective arm, then relaxed his body somewhat, easing his legs under her great head. Linde gazed at him with an expression that seemed pleased, as if she had wanted to visit him for some time, and he couldn’t help but to feel satisfied, if still a touch nervous.  _ I’m the chosen one now. _

“Dost thou wishen for Linde to leavest thee alone, Therion?” H’aanit asked, and he gave a small shrug. 

“... Doesn’t really matter. She looks comfy.” 

Upon seeing Therion loosen up, Alfyn lowered his arms. He looked at Linde with an expression that clearly spelled out a childish desire to touch her, and H’aanit chuckled. 

“Thou mayest petten her, if thou wishen. There be little else that Linde loveth more than attention.”

Alfyn carefully reached out and touched her fur. She nosed her way into his palm, chuffing, and he gave a soft gasp of delight. 

While Alfyn lavished Linde with pets and cooing words, Therion picked awkwardly at his breakfast with his good arm. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, but he managed to hack off a bite of the pancake with his fork and dip it in the jam. It tasted something like strawberries, sweet and light, and Therion decided that it was nice. Perhaps not as nice as those sweetrolls that H’aanit had made, but he wouldn’t be admitting _that_ out loud anytime soon.

Somebody was missing, he realized, and he cocked an eyebrow.  _ No wonder the room is a bit quieter than usual... _

“Windbag still sleeping?” he asked, and Alfyn laughed.

“Hey, now, don’t call him that,” he chastised, lightly, scratching enthusiastically behind Linde’s ears all the while. She seemed to enjoy that. “And nah, he’s up. He’s out right now, actually.” 

“Out?” Therion repeated, looking out the window. He could see icicles hanging off of the edge of the roof. On top of that, it was snowing lightly, and therefore cold as shit. Not really the kind of weather he'd personally enjoy going for a stroll in.

“Aye,” H’aanit replied, swallowing a mouthful of pancake. “The professor hath gone to the cathedral.” 

“Hmm, what did he say, again...? Oh, yeah,” hummed Alfyn, straightening up and folding his hands over his lap. “‘Now that I have had a well-earned rest after our mountainous excursion, I do think that I shall pay a visit to the cathedral in order to learn more about the local customs of the clerics, if they will have me.’”

His mimicry of Cyrus was so unexpected that Therion’s lips twitched in a smile, but he disguised it by scoffing and taking another bite. H'aanit chuckled. He didn't dare check to see if she was laughing at Alfyn, or himself.

“So he’s chatting up the clerics...” Therion said, receiving a nod from the other two.

“Should all faren well, one shall be convinced to comen hither to healen thine injuries,” affirmed H’aanit, finishing off her breakfast. 

Therion nodded. That would be nice. He was getting a bit tired of being mostly unable to move. Though, even so, he couldn’t help but to worry a bit. Just because someone happened to be a member of the church didn’t necessarily mean that they would be kind to him. And while Alfyn, H’aanit, and Cyrus  _ probably  _ wouldn’t allow an overly aggressive cleric to try and take justice into their own hands, it still was a possibility. So, he wasn’t incredibly excited to meet this new person, whoever they were. 

Plus, a shockingly large amount of people that he had come across seemed to share the bizarre idea that they ought to stick by his side for as long as they could, despite the fact that they didn’t know him, and therefore didn’t  _ need to _ . What was to stop this cleric from somehow, for whatever fucking reason, doing the same?

They didn't need to, but there they were anyways. All sitting together in an inn room ( _ his _ room), eating pancakes and jam and chatting as if they’d been friends for years. Or, well, Therion was half-heartedly listening as H’aanit and Alfyn discussed the food, Linde, the church, what kind of person Cyrus would manage to convince to come along. 

Hopefully someone who could barely walk, or else someone who had some kind of responsibilities that they simply couldn’t bear to part with.

Clerics weren't _normally_ able to just abandon their positions, were they...?

Regardless, he didn’t have to wonder for much longer. A soft knock at the door caused everyone to look up, and Cyrus poked his head in. 

“Hello, everyone,” he greeted, pleasant and polite as ever. “And good morning, Therion. Do forgive the interruption.”

Therion gave him a slight nod. What did it matter, considering how many other people were already in there?

“Now, as the others have likely informed you, I have ventured out earlier this morning to converse with some of the locals, as well as admire the cathedral. Absolutely superb, by the way. I highly recommend visiting it, if you happen to get the chance.”

Therion gave a small, bored nod.  _ Long story short, you went for a walk. _

“Whilst on my excursion, I have had the pleasure of making a positively enlightening new acquaintance. Allow me to introduce all of you to her.” 

He entered the room, and a young woman in clerical dress followed a few paces behind. She held a gold-tipped staff in one hand, and a strangely glowing lantern in the other. 

“Excuse me,” she said, in a small, sweet voice. “Please, forgive my intrusion...”

“Good friends, this lovely young lady is Ophilia,” Cyrus introduced, and she turned pink from his flattery. 

_ Sisters of the Church are always easy to fluster... _ thought Therion, mildly amused.  _ And Cyrus is... maybe a bit more oblivious than I thought.  _

“Good morning, everyone. I am pleased to make your acquaintances,” she replied, giving a curtsey. Her appearance was as gentle as her voice, with fine blonde hair and kind brown eyes. She looked young, probably younger than all of them. 

“Well hey, Ophilia! Come on in!” Alfyn grinned, bright and warm as ever. 

“Thank you very much for your hospitality,” she said, reflecting his smile.

Therion watched Alfyn and H’aanit introduce themselves to her, thinking. She seemed innocent, benevolent. He supposed that she seemed to be the least annoying out of everyone, since clerics usually tended to have all of the personality of buttered bread. Therefore, his opinion of her was decidedly neutral. 

She gave Linde a pet on the head, unconcerned with her presence, then turned to look at Therion. It was pretty obvious that he was the patient in this scenario, and she did not try to reach out and shake his hand, which he was somewhat grateful for.

“You must be Therion,” Ophilia greeted, looking him over. “Cyrus has spoken of you to me,” 

_ How much has he spoken of me, exactly...?  _ Therion searched her expression, eyes narrowed, looking for any traces of distaste, but found none. So, either she knew that he was a thief and didn’t care, or...

“That’s me,” he replied, tone blank. Certainly  _ she _ , at the very least, would know what a fool’s bangle meant. Alfyn, he could understand him not knowing. Cyrus was a surprise, but whatever. It was strange that H’aanit  _ did _ know what it was, but this girl? 

Sure enough, when he passed his empty plate to Alfyn, the chain clinked and her eyes were drawn to the sound. Her expression opened into surprise, then shifted into unease. But, she didn’t point it out. Therion wasn't too sure what that meant.

_ It does mean that Cyrus didn’t mention it, though. Interesting. _

“So, Therion, I will now pray to Aelfric to request for him to bestow his divine power upon us,” Ophilia said, dispelling her hesitation. “It shall not hurt a bit, I promise.”

_ Won't hurt a bit? Usually when people say that, it's going to hurt a hell of a lot. _ “... Alright,”

She nodded, then placed her staff in front of herself. She clasped her hands around it, fingers lacing together. Cyrus seemed to understand what was about to happen, and stepped back. The others glanced at each other, as if wondering if they should, too.

“None of you need move, if you are comfortable,” she murmured, giving an amused smile to all of them. “Aelfric’s love shall be given to all those who may need it.” 

Therion looked at her with clear skepticism. He’d never received clerical healing before, and he was unsure of what it would feel like... or if it would even work at all. While thieves were not considered to be sinners by default, given that Aeber was himself one of the twelve patron gods, his character still wasn’t...  _ great _ , by any means. Though not all of his sins have been entirely his decision or choice, he knew that they were still  _ his _ . 

He wondered, but Ophilia seemed to understand that, and she gave him a reassuring smile before closing her eyes, letting her forehead fall to touch the body of the staff. 

She didn’t know what he’s had to do. She didn’t know about his sins, his violence, his  _ killings _ . Despite that, did he deserve to be healed by the gods themselves? After everything he’s done, every drop of blood he’s spilled?

“Aelfric, bringer of sacred light...” she said, slowly, quietly, reverently. “I pray to you to humbly ask for you to bring about a miracle of healing. Please, bestow upon us your love and your power, and let his wounds be healed.” 

For a moment, nothing happened. Therion glanced around, confused, unsure what to expect. Was it working? He didn’t...  _ feel _ any different...

But, as she held her eyes shut and focused, a gentle light emanated from the golden sigil of her staff, enveloping him in warmth. It was a soft blueish-green, similar in colour to the flame glowing within her lantern, and he felt the strangest thing within himself. His arm, his ribs, all of the places where his bruises had stained his skin into the colour of wine... didn’t hurt anymore. The broken bones were shifting inside of him, realigning, but it wasn’t painful. It just felt as if he were riding out the feeling of a good stretch, that soft tingly feeling of satisfaction, and he let it wash over him. 

It felt so nice that he was almost disappointed when it was done. 

“For this miracle, we give you our utmost gratitude, Aelfric,” Ophilia murmured, opening her eyes once again. “Blessed be thee and thy Sacred Flame.”

The holy light faded away, scattering like burning scraps of paper, and Therion felt... better. Not  _ great _ , since breathing was still a bit hard, and he still felt incredibly fatigued, but it was a thousand times better than what it was before. 

“Oh, that was simply  _ stunning _ , Ophilia,” Cyrus enthused, clapping his hands in admiration. “I feel honoured to have witnessed such a flawless healing. I daresay that I, myself, feel a bit more rejuvenated, despite the rest of us not being the main focus of this session.”

“Thank you very much, Professor,” she replied, leaning a touch more against her staff than before. “I’m grateful to have been of service to all of you.”

“Thou seemest to be fatigued... perhaps thou ought to resten a moment, Sister,” H’aanit suggested, gesturing towards the empty part of the bed. 

“I think I may, thank you....” Ophilia said, perching herself where H’aanit had pointed towards. “I still have some practicing to do, it seems... Channeling divine energy is still rather tiring for me.”

“How’re ya feelin’ now, Therion?” asked Alfyn, smiling pleasantly. Therion tried twisting his upper body, finding that he was no longer met with pain. 

“.... Better, I guess,” he admitted, rolling his arm. “Still... not great, though.”  _ I still feel kinda shitty, but it’s something. _

“Unfortunately, divine healing is... limited, in some ways,” confessed Ophilia, eyes turning remorseful. “It’s priority-based magic, and it has no effect on illness.”

_ So the pneumonia will still be there. Great. _

“And what a unique magic it is. There are several theories out there as to  _ what _ , specifically, it is,” said Cyrus, leaning against the edge of the desk. “Though it’s difficult to prove it either way, some scholars have proposed that the foundation of clerical magic is based off of massively boosting cellular regeneration. Others say that it might be a sort of localized, concentrated form of time-based magic. Though, that does make one wonder as to whether or not it’s simply reversing time to where it was before the injury was sustained, or if it’s the contrary— accelerating time to seal a wound as it might naturally have done, in perfect conditions. Regardless, we do know that the source of the magic is brought down from the heavens.”

“It is a mystery, indeed...” agreed Ophilia, idly twisting her staff between her palms. “I just need to practice it further, and then I’ll hopefully be able to use it for longer spans of time without becoming as tired.”

“You said it was... priority-based?” Alfyn repeated, starting to remove the splints from Therion’s arm. He palpated along the bones as he did, noting that Therion didn’t flinch or cry out when he pressed on them. Ophilia’s healing had indeed worked.

“I did, yes,” she nodded, smiling. “Aelfric understands that we humans find it difficult to use his magic for long. Therefore, he targets the most serious problems first, before we run out of energy.” 

“Huh, okay,” he nodded, thinking. “So, let’s say that —and this is just hypothetical, of course— Cyrus gets injured.” 

“Nice,” muttered Therion. Alfyn turned and gave his knee a light slap. 

“Not nice. But... yeah, Cyrus gets injured.”

“How unfortunate...” lamented Cyrus. “What sort of scenario might I have gotten myself into?”

“Hmm, somethin' serious. Let’s say that you slipped and fell down a ravine or somethin’.”

Therion's heart skipped a beat.

_ Of all the possible scenarios... _

“Goodness...” said Cyrus, eyebrows rising. “Do I survive?” 

“Well... I was thinkin’ you would, in this situation, since I don’t think we’re gonna be treatin’ a corpse.” 

Cyrus inclined his head. “Touché. How miraculous.” 

Therion's fists bunched into the sheets. _Miraculous_ _ indeed. _

“But, anyways, let’s say that you, uh... end up with a bunch of scrapes... a broken wrist, a moderate concussion... and a deep pierce wound in your stomach from a rock or somethin’.” 

_ Don’t forget the eye, too... _ Therion thought, feeling dizzy.  _ And the heart, I guess, if we’re going to go into detail. _

“Oh, this is quite a terrible situation,” Cyrus lamented. “However did I find myself in such a mess...?” 

Alfyn shrugged. “Oh, who knows. Probably a disagreement or somethin’. Or maybe it was just rainy and you slipped.” 

_ I almost wish that I just slipped. _

“Ah, yes, that does make sense... I could see either of those things happening, truthfully...”

"And I happened to be passin' by, and ran over to save you."

"I daresay it's my lucky day, in that event."

Alfyn looked over towards Ophilia then. “So, if I happened to be a cleric instead of an apothecary, and used divine healing on him instead... the order of priority would go: stomach gash, broken wrist, concussion, then scrapes?” 

Ophilia considered his question, then gave a slow nod.

“Yes, that sounds about right. It could depend on the severity of the concussion, but it would either be looked after before or after the broken wrist. Otherwise, though, that’s right, yes.” 

“Huh. That's actually pretty cool. Though, y'know, kind've unlikely. Generally speakin', there ain't a whole lotta people who end up survivin’ in that kind of scenario.”

“Yes, unlikely is right,” agreed Cyrus, idly twirling a lock of his hair. “I daresay that it’s amazing that  _ anyone _ would survive anything like that. Here, in your hypothetical situation, I only live because someone was nearby to see it. What a beautiful miracle of happenstance that would be.”

Underneath his bangs, Therion’s eye stung.

“Therion, aren thou not feeling well? Thine countenance seemeth pale,” wondered H’aanit, and everyone looked over at him. He must have been showing his discomfort on his face, because Alfyn’s expression instantly became concerned, brows drawn in worry. 

“... I’m alright,” he lied, forcing himself to relax. He had to push the tension out of his muscles, make his body forget the pain so that they didn’t notice, didn’t suspect anything. “... I’ve just got a headache.” 

That part wasn’t entirely a lie, since he was still feeling pretty terrible. 

“Aw, buddy...” said Alfyn, voice kind. “Is it an  _ I-need-medicine _ kind of headache, or an  _ I-want-peace-and-quiet _ kind of headache?” 

_ We’re not buddies. _ “... I think it’s... the second one...” 

Alfyn’s eyes softened. He nodded in understanding, moving to stand up. 

“Gotcha. Alright, we’ll leave ya be for a little while. I’ll come check up on ya in an hour or so, okay?” 

Therion nodded, reaching to press a hand on his temple. “... ‘Kay,”

The others all got up and left, each of them wishing Therion well, hoping that he would feel better, telling him to rest up, and whatever other things that people normally said to their sick friends before leaving for a bit. 

But Therion wasn’t their friend, so he didn’t really know how to respond. 

Alfyn especially left a strange impression on him. He somehow managed, in his cheery little  _ See ya soon, okay? _ , to give him a look so hopeful and so sad both that Therion felt as if he had just crossed the room and slapped him across the cheek. Alfyn’s eyes had whispered something along the lines of  _ I hope you’ll still  _ **_be_ ** _ here when I check back on you _ , and it stung in a way that Therion could have never before anticipated. 

With that, he realized, his worst fears had essentially been confirmed: he had fucked up, and Alfyn had started to enjoy his company. Alfyn wanted to have him around. He saw him as a friend. He didn’t find him unpleasant. 

And that was bad news. Bad, terrible,  _ horrible _ news. 

He couldn’t become friends with him. 

He blinked, stopped cold.  _ Alfyn can’t become friends with me.... or is it that  _ **_I_ ** _ can’t become friends with  _ **_him_ ** _? _

He gave the empty room a small, wry smile.  _ Who am I more concerned about here, anyways? Him, or me....? _

He didn’t know, and it annoyed him. It irritated him to the point where, like that morning, it was all he could think about, rolling the thought over and over again in his mind, and by the time Alfyn stepped back into the room to see how he was doing, he turned to glare at him so coldly that his steps faltered. 

“Why?” Therion asked, before Alfyn could utter a single word, and he tipped his head, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

“W-why what?” he repeated, even more confused than before.

“Why are you trying so damn hard to be my friend?” 

Alfyn blinked, taken aback. Prickly as Therion could be, he hadn’t really anticipated that he might see his friendliness as truly  _ unpleasant _ . 

“Ah, uh, well...” he started, a bit awkwardly, but Therion continued, relentless.

“Like last night, after I said that our little...  _ arrangement _ was only temporary. You know, that I was going to split off from you guys at Noblecourt. You should have known that right from the start, so why’d that upset you  _ that _ much? And don’t you  _ dare _ fucking lie to me and say that it wasn’t a big deal, because you were still moping about it this morning. So  _ obviously _ it’s bothering you a whole hell of a lot, and it’s pissing me off. I don’t understand. I don’t get  _ why _ .” 

Alfyn just listened silently to his angry tirade, expression caught somewhere between hurt and bewilderment, and Therion couldn’t decide how it made him feel. He shouldn't have felt anything about it. After all, _Alfyn_ was the one who made the mistake of liking his company in the first place. If he had kept his distance (like Therion), and rebuked all of his attempts to try and befriend him (like Therion), then perhaps it wouldn’t hurt so bad when he had to face the reality of him needing to part ways with him (because it didn’t hurt Therion in the slightest, not at  _ all _ ). 

Because,  _ unlike  _ Therion, he was softhearted, and he was stupid, and he was too trusting, and he was too kind, and he was too optimistic to understand that sometimes, closing your heart off was safer, better, kept you sane, kept you  _ alive _ — 

“Do you have any friends, Therion?” Alfyn asked, and Therion was so caught off-kilter by his question that he just stared at him for a moment, mouth agape. Whatever he was about to say next had been obliterated so spectacularly that he had to search for an answer, which was, infuriatingly enough, probably exactly what Alfyn had been expecting.

“I— What’s it matter to you?” he spluttered, ungracefully, and Alfyn shook his head slightly. 

“... You don’t, do you?” 

Why did he have to look so godsdamned  _ crushed _ when he said that, as if Therion had confessed that he’d never seen the sunlight before? The sad sincerity of his voice made Therion almost want to blush, if only from humiliation. What was so wrong with what he had just said? What did it  _ matter _ if he didn’t have any friends? 

_ What could a friend ever do that you couldn’t do for yourself? _

“S-so  _ what _ ?” 

“I just... feel bad for ya, I guess,” 

“I don’t— I don’t  _ want _ your fucking pity,” snapped Therion, cheeks turning red, and Alfyn carefully raised his palms up, submissive.

“This ain’t pity, Therion,” he replied, giving him a look that said  _ You still don’t understand? _ and Therion scowled deeper.

“Then what the hells  _ is _ it? Contempt? Shame? What?” he demanded, watching those big amber eyes turn sadder, softer, kinder, and he hated how relentlessly gentle he could look, as if he’d known him and cared about him for years already without him knowing. 

It made him sick, made him feel like scratching lines into his skin. But, it also made the weakest parts of him shiver from relief, felt like a fresh salve on cracked hands, and he knew that, even if he did rip and tear at himself until he came back to his senses, that Alfyn would be there anyways, quietly patching him up with the sting of a needle and the light pressure of a bandage, and he didn’t know what to do. 

He was an animal backed into a corner, and Alfyn saw it. He sat on the chair, making himself smaller, and Therion didn’t understand.

It didn’t make sense. He was being cruel, being aggressive, and Alfyn had the advantage here. He could easily have given him a smack upside the head, choked him, pinned him back against the headboard and told him to never,  _ ever _ talk like that to him again, you ungrateful, stupid little sack of  _ shite _ — 

_ Because  _ **_I’m_ ** _ the boss, you hear me? Not you, mate.  _ **_Me_ ** _. _

The back of a hand pressed gently against his forehead. 

Therion stilled, every roiling cell in his body freezing in place. Alfyn clicked his tongue softly and pulled his hand away, reaching into his bag.

“Feverish again,” Alfyn murmured, taking out a new set of extracts. “Seems like your body processes flamesbane faster than most others do. Let’s try white pine. That’ll still work with windflower...” 

He took out the ingredients, carefully measuring and mixing them together at the desk. 

“... It’s concern, by the way,” he said, holding the bottle up to the light. He seemed to be looking closely at the colour. “Not pity, or mockery, or anythin’ like that. Just... concern.” 

His voice, normally so brash and bright, was almost an afterthought then. But it was sincere, and Therion deflated. 

“You don’t need to be concerned about me,” he replied, unintentionally matching his quietness. He didn’t. He didn’t _need_ to be. 

A vial of tonic was pressed into his hand. It was still purplish, but wasn’t cloudy. 

“Sure I do,” Alfyn said, smiling again, and Therion tipped the vial back, wincing as the medicine passed over his tongue. It was perhaps even more bitter than before, if that was possible. “You’re an interesting person, Therion. I like hangin’ out with you. An’ I’m sorry if... y’know, you don’t really feel the same. You don't have to.” he added, tone turning sad again, and Therion couldn’t bear to look at him. 

“... You shouldn’t try to become friends with me,” he said, so quietly that it was nearly drowned out by the crackle of the fireplace. “I’m not... really a good person.” 

That admission was probably the most personal, honest thing he’s said to anyone in a long, long time. Saying it felt oddly like removing a splinter, like a burst of pain and then relief when it was finally out and lying on the table. 

Or, he presumed that the relief would come soon. In the meantime, there was a small, stinging hole from where it once lay. Open, vulnerable.

“... Bad people don’t try n’ convince other people not to befriend them out of concern,” Alfyn replied, simply, and Therion ran out of protests. There was nothing else he could say to that. It was both the final blow, the last hit to a monster’s body that caused it to lie down and take its final breath, and a gentle stroke of a hand, a soothing touch that finally convinced a feral dog to be tamed, for the time being. Therion wasn’t sure which one it was (or even whether he was the monster or the dog in this scenario), but he figured that he would find the answer in Alfyn’s eyes if he chose to look. 

He didn’t, though. He knew well enough which one of the two he had to be... and which one of the two he’d rather be.


	9. But, He Didn't

It took about a week for Therion to start feeling a little less like a poorly-reanimated corpse. 

He still wasn't doing  _ great, _ of course, as his energy levels were still a bit lacking, but on the afternoon of the seventh day (after much wheedling and half-serious threats), Alfyn reluctantly cleared him as able to leave the inn, though not for long, if he’d please, since he  _ could _ end up just feelin’ worse again, and Therion rolled his eyes and dismissed him with a lazy wave of the hand.  _ Yeah, yeah _ . 

“I'll see ya later, okay?” Alfyn said, and while he didn't say it, he didn't have to. Therion still knew exactly what he  _ wanted  _ to say. 

_ I hope I'll see you later. _

“... Hmph,” he shrugged, expression betraying nothing. Let him wonder.

With that, he bundled up in all of his meagre clothing and started wandering the town, if only for a change of scenery from the room he’d become painfully,  _ agonizingly _ familiar with. Being sick, he hadn't been allowed to explore (nor had the energy to in the first place), and found that the room ran out of interesting features early in the morning of the second day. Naturally, after spending a week in there, he’d memorized the grain of the ceiling well enough that he could see it with his eyes closed. He knew exactly where every little ding and scuff was in the floors, and where there was a tiny, nearly imperceptible stain on the blanket. He knew which floorboard creaked, which parts of the bedframe squeaked when he shifted, where all of the knots and burls were in the walls. It had gotten to the point where, were he shown a hundred near-identical inn rooms in a row, he’d still be able to pick out exactly which one he’s had to share with Alfyn. 

_ Alfyn _ . 

Ever since their little...  _ moment _ on the first day, he had stopped being so outright mean towards him. His hostility was replaced instead with something that the others had labelled as “vague acceptance”... to put it nicely. That being said, he still wasn’t overly  _ friendly _ with him, but that didn’t seem to bother him much at all. If anything, he seemed downright pleased with every little sentence fragment and two-word answer he received, and Therion didn’t really get it. After all, he had never  _ said _ that he wanted to become friends with him. 

Or, even if he’d really stick around for good, but he somehow didn’t have the heart to keep reminding him of it. 

Like most days in Flamesgrace, a light snow was falling as he walked. The fire nestled in his hands was steady once more, keeping him warm enough even as the mountain winds kicked up swathes of powder. It was good to be healthy again. He had to admit, if begrudgingly, that Alfyn did a good job.

It was begrudging, though.

Cold as it was, the outside atmosphere was lively. The locals around him went about their merry ways, seemingly completely unbothered by the sting of the air on their faces, chatting and laughing and discussing the weather as they walked (which was apparently lovely, though Therion would beg to differ). Some of them had large dogs following at their heels, panting out great clouds as they passed. Children weaved between their parents, some bundled up so heavily that they could barely move past a waddle, and Therion carefully sidestepped them. The last thing he needed was to unintentionally destroy his reputation by kneeing a wayward toddler in the face. 

For all of its snow, and ice, and bitterly, soul-suckingly cold winds, Flamesgrace was actually pretty quaint. It was too wintry for flowers of any sort to be growing, but a peek inside any of the houses or the shops lining the streets showed that they were filled with light and life. Everything about the town, inside and outside, seemed to be set up to combat the starkness of the snow as much as possible. Even the drab, dark coats and cloaks worn by the townspeople were embroidered with a myriad of colours and motifs along the borders, depicting flowers, vines, pheasants, elk, and beautiful interlocking geometric patterns. Even though his purple shawl was brighter than the majority of the people he passed, he still felt oddly plain in comparison, unadorned.

He eventually found the tavern and went in for a late lunch. The woman behind the counter cheerily served him the local special at his request, and he walked back to a windowside table with a mug of steaming apple cider and a light meal of various cheeses, meats, and crackers. While he was technically doing better, his appetite was still a little lacking, so that suited him well enough.

The nearby fireplace popped. The chill he'd gotten from outside started to melt away. He slowly ate his food and drank his cider, watching the locals passing by and listening to the background chatter within the tavern. A couple of the patrons at a nearby table were discussing the Kindling, whatever that was. A festival, maybe? Regardless, it was of little importance, since Cyrus had tentatively proposed that they might be able to set off tomorrow, with Alfyn's permission. Alfyn declared that they'd have to wait and see how Therion was feeling the next day. Therion had already given them _his_ permission, of course, but apparently his word as the patient didn't mean much, so he had sulked for a good hour after that.

All of the charcuterie board was good (save for one weird cheese he decided that he didn’t like), but the cider fascinated him. He thought the flavour strange at first, spiced and sweet and slightly tart, but found that he liked it more and more with every new sip. It got to the point where he nearly had to physically restrain himself from ordering several more and downing them in rapid succession. This wasn’t just because Alfyn would be terribly amused to see him leave the inn only to promptly end up back and sloshed out of his mind, but because his purse was still _pathetically_ light, and he hadn’t had the chance to fix that as of yet. 

So, he fixed that. The devout, too-trusting people of Flamesgrace didn’t once notice his hand sliding into their pockets and making off with their leaves, and he walked off a good two pounds heavier than before, purse weighed down and jingling. 

Oh, it felt good to be a thief sometimes. 

Now that he had coin once more, he idly checked the local shops. He ended up buying a new dagger (to replace the one that had tragically gone missing during the gryphon fiasco), and was pleased to find that it was sharpened so finely that he could cut tendrils from paper with a delicate touch. Apparently the blacksmiths of the Frostlands were fairly well-known for their skill, so that was a lovely little surprise for him. 

After that, he continued walking until he was certain that he’d seen just about everything there  _ was _ to see, and ended up back in the main square. It had ceased snowing by then, and the clouds had timidly broken up in several places. Behind them was a soft violet sky, flecked already with a couple of stars. It would soon get dark, by the looks of it.

He stopped there, and looked up. The spires of the cathedral loomed high over him, making him feel miniature in comparison. It was a lot bigger up close, he realized. Saintsbridge had one hell of a cathedral, but even it somehow seemed a lot less extravagant than this one. 

Therion wasn’t too sure what to do next, but he didn’t really want to return to the inn so soon. Cold as it was, his newfound freedom was still too exhilarating to relinquish just yet, so he drifted towards a nearby bench. It was frigid, and he shivered, but it, too, was somewhat refreshing. 

Alfyn would probably scold him for sitting there for too long, but he shrugged. What he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. 

Time passed, and the hour hand on the clock tower clunked onto 6 PM. The square was promptly filled with the sound of bells. Therion had expected for it to be a standard chiming of the hour, with that pervasive little tune that every church seemed to play before ringing six times, but this wasn’t that at all. It was a full verse from a song, about thirty seconds long, and he frowned, trying to place it. It sounded somewhat familiar, he supposed, but he had no idea where from, or why. 

But, it was nice. Regardless of the bad memories, of the bad associations of the place, he couldn’t help but to feel a little nostalgic of all the days spent wandering Saintsbridge, listening to the cathedral bells ringing out the hour through the entirety of the city. It reminded him somewhat of the times surrounding holidays, when decorations would begin to appear on the outsides of houses and shops, and when hymns and folk songs would float over the squares and out people’s windows. 

He was sure that it wasn’t a holiday, though. So why the song?

“Oh, there you are, Therion,” a woman said, and he glanced over to find that cleric from before passing by. She seemed to have been heading in the direction of the cathedral. _ Was her name Ophilia? _

“Mhm,” he replied, noncommittally. She had become a sort of friend of the rest of the group, and had started stopping by the inn more frequently over the past few days. Therion, of course, had no more interest in befriending her than he did anyone else, and maintained his distance. 

But, she smiled and stepped a bit closer, spelling out that she was wanting to talk, and he suppressed a sigh. 

“Forgive me for prying, but you looked to be thinking about something,” she supposed, tilting her head a touch, and he shrugged. 

“... Wasn’t about anything too exciting. Just about the bells.” 

Her expression brightened from understanding, from enthusiasm, and he wondered if he ought to have said anything at all. 

“Oh, were you expecting to just hear it play the time?” she wondered, and he nodded. “Normally, that’s exactly what it does, but today does happen to be Sunday.” 

He blinked. That didn’t really clear anything up.

“O-oh, heavens, my apologies,” she said, faltering a touch. “I wasn’t aware that... ah, that not every town might observe that. But, um, anyways, Sundays in Flamesgrace are also known as Days of Thanks. We give our thanks to the gods by praying and playing hymns in the cathedral that pertain to them.”

“Huh,” he replied, starting to understand. “... So which god was  _ that _ hymn for?” 

His interest, slight as it was, encouraged her. “Well, the first hymn plays at nine in the morning, and that in in honour of Aelfric. This continues all the way to nine in the evening, when the final song is played. Since it’s six o’clock, we just heard Hymn of the Starseer... so that would be to honour Steorra.”

Therion nodded. That made sense. Twelve songs, for twelve gods. 

“Hang on. Nine AM to nine PM would mean that there’s 13 songs,” he realized, and she giggled. 

“You’re sharp, Therion. Yes, indeed. The final song is the Ode to Banishment, where the sealing of Galdera and his evil is celebrated. Some also consider it as a thanks to all of the gods, which is another way to interpret the song.” 

He nodded, and then dropped the topic. Cool. Now that his question had been answered, he was done with her. 

But, she didn’t appear to be done with him, and he stifled a sigh when her expression eventually turned uncomfortable. What did she want?

Eventually, just before he opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing, she spoke up, in a timid voice.

“You... you'll catch cold out here, Therion,” she said, wringing her staff in her hands. “Perhaps you should walk around, at least...”

He shrugged. “Whatever,” 

She blinked, then shook her head firmly, blonde hair stirring from the motion. “No, it's not ‘whatever’. You only just recovered. I should think that you have no wish to be sick once more, do you?”

He really didn't, in all honesty. He's been sick enough to last a lifetime. 

But, he just sat there, staring coolly up at her.  _ You can’t make me get up. I do what I want. _

Ophilia sighed. He was aware that he was probably acting like a little kid, but he didn't care.

“Right, so if you’re determined to sit and think, then you had might as well sit somewhere a little warmer...” she mused, motioning for him to come along.

“I don't want to go back to the inn, if that's what you're trying to do,” he said, but she shook her head once more. 

“No, I wasn't planning on that. Come along, now, if you please,”

He sighed deeply, making sure to spell out exactly how reluctant he was to go along with whatever she had in mind, and stood. Fine. He supposed that it was somewhat cold out, actually, and perhaps a warmer place might not be so bad.

He then realized that they were heading towards the cathedral, and he hesitated. Was he even... allowed in there? 

Therion doubted that Aelfric would personally send a bolt of lightning down and kill him if he stepped foot in the church, but it still felt as if he was trespassing somehow. It felt worse than breaking into someone’s house, closer to as if he were stepping on top of a burial mound, but Ophilia simply waved him inside.

“I... know what your profession is,” she said, quietly enough that the other few people milling about didn’t hear her speak. “But please don’t think that you would be excluded from this space because of it. Though I don’t know you all that well... I do not carry the impression that you’re an evil person, Therion.” 

“Impressions don't mean much,” he countered, and she considered his words for a moment, giving a vague shrug. 

“I suppose not, no. But, the others have faith in you. Therefore, I do, too.”

He shouldn't have been as surprised as he was to hear that, but it struck him straight through to his core.  

They didn’t even know him. They didn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he was a thief. If anything, out of all of them, he was the most likely to hurt someone, the most likely to get them in trouble, the most likely to... 

To what? Betray them? Backstab them? Let them believe that they’ve managed to tame him, only for him to disappear at some point, leave his inn room before the crack of dawn and flee? 

_ Would I do that? _

He wasn’t... bound to them. Why would it hurt them if he chose to follow his own path, without them?

_Why would it hurt me?_  


Ophilia sat on a pew, leaning her staff beside her, and Therion reluctantly followed. He perched on the edge of the bench, not quite close enough to give the impression that they were friends, but she didn’t comment on it. 

The atmosphere inside was... quiet. The air was lightly scented with something that reminded him of incense. There was no service going on at that moment, but people came and went as they pleased, sitting in their own spots and tipping their heads back in silent prayer. The only sound, aside from footsteps and the occasional cough or murmur, was the faint sound of bells jingling above them. They were different from the great ones that played the hymn, and Therion looked up, trying to locate the source. 

“... What is that?” he wondered, watching it swing. It seemed to be a large urn, or something similar, made of a gleaming silver. It was ornate, with holes carved into it in intricate patterns, and it appeared to be emitting a sort of smoke. Therion supposed that that’s where the smell was coming from. The urn was attached to the ceiling with four chains, and a collection of round bells hung from the links, with three to a chain.

“That’s a thurible,” she explained. “It’s mainly used to purify the air from evil spirits and demons, though I almost believe that it’s also used to create a more relaxing environment in which to offer one’s prayers.” 

“... Let me guess. Twelve bells, for twelve gods?” Therion supposed, and she nodded. 

“That’s it, yes. Perhaps I’m biased, since I live here, but those bells are some of my favourite sounds. I find them incredibly soothing.”

In a way, Therion supposed that they were. The high ceilings made them echo softly, creating a sound that was almost shimmering. Combined with the subtle scent of the incense, he could see why some people would choose to meditate in there.

“Today is a very good day to pay a visit to the cathedral,” Ophilia said, still watching the censer trace its lazy arc through the room. “The thurible is only used on Days of Thanks, and on special events, such as holidays, weddings, and funerals. Depending on the event, different incense will be used.” 

It swung past them once more, bells tinkling. They sat there for a while, listening.

“You may go back to thinking if you wish,” she said, glancing over. “I will give my daily thanks to the gods. If you didn't want to yourself, did you want for me to say a prayer for you?” 

He scoffed. “Like the gods would care about someone like me,” 

She seemed taken aback, but gave a gentle smile right after. 

“Of course they do, Therion. The gods care about everyone.” 

_ If the gods really cared, they would have let me die already. They would have killed me when they killed my mother, or when I fell from the cliff, or maybe when the gryphon took me away. _

“And what makes you say that?” he asked, tersely.

“Because I  _ know  _ that they do. Even though we may suffer at times, they do care about us.”

“You don’t know  _ anything _ ,” Therion hissed, and she stopped talking. “You don’t know a fucking  _ thing  _ about suffering.”

Ophilia’s smile tightened, for just a moment, but eventually smoothed back out into kindness. Apparently he had struck a nerve. 

It should have satisfied him, but it didn’t, really. He felt only a vague sense of discomfort, like he had done something stupid. But, he didn’t apologize, and she didn’t ask him to. 

A long, uncomfortable silence passed. Somewhere, in the rear annexes of the church, a mother sang to her child. He couldn't make out the words from there.

“Therion,” Ophilia said, trying again. “I don’t know what you have been through, or even that much about you as a person.”

He snorted.

“I don’t want to ask. Though—” she added, preventing him from interrupting. “—I can certainly tell that you’ve had... a difficult life.” 

_ You have no fucking idea.  _

“I do know a thing or two about pain, though,” she finished, more quietly.

He gave her a level stare. “... And... would a sheltered little Sister of the Flame  _ really  _ know? You know,  _ beyond  _ her duties of patting people on the backs and sending them on their way?” he asked, tartly. 

He hoped that she would get angry, but she didn’t. Her eyes regarded him with something that he couldn’t quite decipher, something cool and yet  _ sad _ , as if he had dredged out something unpleasant from deep in her memory. That, too, didn’t feel much like a victory. 

“Normally... I probably wouldn’t know much, no...” she admitted, worrying the edge of her capelet in her fingers. 

“... Normally,” Therion repeated, halfway to a question, and she nodded.

“I shouldn’t. But... I do. My family at the cathedral is not my birth family.” 

_ Oh. _

“You’re an orphan...” realized Therion, a bit insensitively. However, Ophilia simply nodded. 

“Yes, I am. I lost not only my family, but nearly the entirety of my village to a war,” she recalled, in a faraway voice.

_ Oh... _

Now Therion really felt like an asshole. He sat there for a moment, uncertain of how to proceed. It was sort of tempting to continue being cruel, but... 

He mentally cursed. She was like that idiot apothecary, somehow able to convince him, even if just temporarily, to simmer down and try to talk like a normal person. 

“How... old were you?” he eventually asked, without his usual sharpness. 

“I was quite young. Just five years old,” Ophilia responded, turning to watch the censer once more. “It was a small village... small enough that it likely wouldn’t have appeared on any map.” 

“... Why’d such a small village become a target?” asked Therion. 

She chuckled, but it lacked humour. “It didn’t make any sense to me, either. I only found out, years later, that it was sitting on the border of two different kingdoms. The two kingdoms disagreed with each other... and one of them decided to raze the village, to prove a point. That became a formal declaration of war.”

Therion didn’t say anything. He didn’t really know  _ what _ to say.

“However, I was fortunate. I was found wandering the ruins by a passing Knight Ardante, and he took me to Archbishop Josef. He already had a daughter, Lianna, who was the same age as me, so he gladly took me in.” 

“... That’s nice,” Therion said, disliking how flatly it came out. He didn’t...  _ intend _ to sound sarcastic this time. 

However, Ophilia didn’t seem to interpret it as such. “I didn’t think so at first,” she admitted, smiling ruefully. “I didn’t hate him, nor Lianna, but I was very depressed. I had just lost my parents, after all, and my house. I thought that I had nobody in the world who cared about me, despite being completely surrounded by love.” 

Therion fell silent again. Apparently everything he said was tinged with venom, and he had no clue how to spit it out without harming anyone.

“It took some time, but it was only by gentle persistence that Lianna managed to force me to interact with them. Or, actually—” she corrected, giving a small, real laugh. “ — It wasn’t gentle at all. After a month or so of her trying to coax me outside, she just grabbed me by the hand and dragged me out into the snow. I didn’t want a single thing to do with whatever she had in mind, and I tried digging my heels in to get her to leave me alone. But it didn’t work. She was determined, and though I didn’t know it at the time, there was a small part of me that was so desperate for love that, in the end, I ended up allowing her to take me outside. Had I not had that little ember of hope within my chest... I might not have ever become the person I am today.” 

Therion stayed silent, expression clouding over slightly. Was she... hinting at something? Was she trying to tell him that he was acting like she did, all those years ago? 

A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he saw that Ophilia had patted it kindly as she stood up. 

“Goodness, I apologize for rambling on,” she said, sheepishly. “But thank you very much for listening. You’re a good listener... save, perhaps, when it comes to the professor,” she added, mischievously. 

He couldn’t help it— a tiny smile twitched at the corner of his lips. 

“Now, as I’ve bothered you enough for one evening, I think I shall go back to the inn to talk with your friends. Perhaps I'll see you soon.” 

_ Not my friends.  _ “Hmph,” 

“Are you going to meet up with the others at the tavern?” 

He thought, then shrugged. He shouldn't. But, he couldn't really deny that he wanted to.

“Well, if we don't end up seeing you before we go to sleep, then we'll leave a candle for you at the inn. Goodnight, Therion. We'll see you in the morning.”

“... Night,” he replied, automatically.

She smiled brightly and left, boots clicking softly over the tiled floor. A horrible draft came in from where she opened the front door, and Therion shivered. How she was warm enough in that dress of hers was beyond him.

He sat alone on the bench, gazing up at the vaulting ceiling. The censer continued to trace its path. Above it, the panels between the crossbeams were painted with beautiful frescoes depicting Aelfric in his divine realm, along with several other holy beings and figures holding staves and scriptures. This place had to have been stunning in the daytime, he figured, what with the rows upon rows of stained glass windows lining the walls.

Therion scratched at his wrist, smiling wryly. A thief in a church. Who would've thought.

Come to think of it, this was the first time he had been inside of a cathedral, wasn't it? His mother never took him. She was too frail to leave the house much, especially as her disease progressed. She had mentioned to him that she used to go, at one point, before he was born. She had also said that she would like to take him, one day. 

They had never quite gotten around to it.

Though he was not an active follower of this particular god, Therion closed his eyes and thought out a quick prayer to Aelfric, on behalf of his mother. It felt like the right thing to do.

After that, he stood up, feeling his joints crack as he stretched. He had been there for long enough. 

He slipped out of the cathedral and instantly ran into a wall of cold, sending a violent shiver through his core. How anyone could willingly live in such abysmally frigid temperatures was beyond him... completely and utterly beyond him.

He had spent more time in there than he thought. The evening had worn on, and it was quite dark out. He wandered along the hard-packed snow and thought back to Ophilia's parting words. He waved away the little spark of warmth he felt at her offer to leave a candle for him. That didn't matter. What made her assume that he would come back to the inn? 

After all, that night was the perfect night to run away.

He walked through the dark town, avoiding the pools of light from the lamps along the street. Very few people passed him by. He supposed that, even to the locals, it was getting too cold to make them want to be out longer than necessary.

He was alone now, and unbound. He was no longer suffering from his poisoning, nor his pneumonia, nor his broken bones. His health, for the first time in a while, was back to normal.

The tavern came up, and he saw the four of them within. They all had mugs of cider, and plates of food. 

For a moment, he envisioned himself going in and sitting next to them. He thought about ordering a cider and dinner and listening to their chatter, their useless drivel that somehow both stuffed his mind full of junk and left him with something new, something close to warmth, and he shook his head.

He didn’t  _ need _ to be around Ophilia. He didn’t  _ need _ to be around Cyrus, or H’aanit, or even Alfyn. He didn’t need them anymore.

He turned away, continuing along the icy road.

He could do it.

He could leave.

However, even as he came up to the edge of town, staring out at the white expanse beyond the gate, where it would be  _ so easy _ to just keep on walking and never look back... he didn’t. 

Why, he didn’t know. He could. He really, really could. 

But... he didn’t. 

Some time passed. The sky grew deeper, darker, and the chill grew more oppressive, sinking its way through his clothes and into his bones. A shivering Therion scowled at the snow on his boots, wondering why he couldn't make himself keep walking. After all, it would be so,  _ so _ easy to leave. He could pass through the town gates... and keep on treading through the snow, until even the lights from the lamps were no longer visible in the distance. He could do it. He had managed to get this far, on the cusp of the outskirts. What was stopping him from continuing on?

Nothing. Nothing at all was stopping him.

And yet...

For just a moment, the ghost of a hand spreading salve on his wrist made him shiver for an entirely different reason. No more of that, either, if he ran off. No more salve, no more long-drawn, rambling stories, no more weird herby smell, no more gentle touches.

All of that would be gone for good, if he wanted.

_ Good riddance, _ he thought, but it didn’t feel like he meant it.

Therion sighed. A large cloud came out in response. The air was so cold that it stung his face. Because of that, he convinced himself that the only thing stopping him from running away was the chill, which would surely worsen as the night wore on. He wore a shawl, sure, but it wasn’t  _ that _ thick. 

Did he really want to freeze to death while trying to disappear? Not particularly. 

So, with that thought, he cursed and trudged back to the inn. The snow crunched under his boots, and he became aware of just how cold his feet had gotten. He really...  _ didn’t _ want to walk for hours in the snow like this. If anything, his body ached for a warm bed.

_ I'm getting spoiled if I'm getting used to this... _ he thought, wryly.  _ How will I ever go back to sleeping on the ground after this...? _

He hadn't once paid for his room, he realized. Someone else had to have picked up the cost for him. Who it was, he didn’t know. Why, he didn’t know either. But, none of them had asked once for him to contribute, even though they had every right to.

The inn’s door opened without a sound. Just like Ophilia had promised, she had left a candle burning for him at the front. 

He gazed at the candle for a while, watching it flicker until he developed an afterimage in his vision. Her, that godsdamned apothecary, the professor, and H’aanit. Even Linde. All of them were so strangely patient with him. 

He didn't understand. What could they possibly gain from it? From him?

It didn’t make sense. Maybe, if they got to reap the rewards of his hauls, then it might have made sense as to why they would actively want him around. 

But he didn’t share. He never did, so why would they want him in their party? What else would they possibly want him around for?

Eventually, he lifted the candle and took his key from his pocket, heading down the hall. He presumed that Alfyn would still be over at the tavern, if not sleeping. 

He unlocked the door, and was greeted by the soft sound of breathing. Alfyn was there, surprisingly, already fast asleep and curled under the blankets. He didn’t turn away when Therion placed the candle on the table between their beds. 

One of the things Ophilia had said in the cathedral had followed him through the town and into his room, echoing in his head even as he got ready for bed.

_ It was only by gentle persistence that Lianna managed to force me to interact with them. _

_ Had I not had that little ember of hope within my chest... I might not have ever become the person I am today.  _

Persistence. 

Alfyn... sure was persistent. 

Therion watched him for a while longer, then crawled into bed. He wondered, for a moment, if he had gone to bed worrying about him... about him being out in the cold, about how he could end up sick once more. 

About whether or not he'd come back at all.

Before he laid his head on the pillow, he leaned over and blew out the candle. A whiff of smoke and a reddish pinprick was all that remained of the flame, and Therion stared at it. 

_ An ember... _ he thought, watching the smoke coil in the darkness. Even the most stubborn embers could usually be stoked back into a fire with a little patience. 

He also knew that within a certain frame of time, a candle can be re-lit by its trail of smoke. You don't even need to touch the match to the wick itself in that case— all that needs to be done is to bring the flame into the smoke, not too far from the wick itself, and the fire will jump over to catch hold of the smouldering end, bringing it back to the same brightness that it had before. 

If a candle could be used as a metaphor for the ember Ophilia had mentioned, then her candle had recently been put out by the time she went to live at the cathedral. It was still smouldering, still capable of receiving her new sister's love and relighting by her proximity, by her flame being carried over by her smoke. 

... How long had it been since Therion's candle had been extinguished? Six  _ years _ ? 

He sighed. Yes, his candle had gone cold long ago. It would take a lot of effort to relight him to where he used to be, before his life (literally) went downhill.

Was it possible? Could he ever be that way again?

_ Who would even bother? _

He didn't know. The quiet room told him no answers.

Just then, his focus shifted towards Alfyn. Patient, caring, gentle Alfyn.

For a moment, he wondered. 

_... _

And he dispelled the thought.

Before he closed his eyes, he took another look at the candle. It was no longer warm, and the smoke had dissipated. It was completely out, without a trace of it ever having been lit.

_ Fitting _ , he thought, settling down to a restless sleep. 


	10. Recompense

Of course she decided to come along.

Considering the history of the other people in the group and their collective tendency to spontaneously jump aboard on an excursion that  _ didn't involve them _ , Therion shouldn't have been surprised. But, this time, he truly couldn't believe it. She was a  _ cleric _ . Clerics, as a general rule, aren't really  _ capable _ of just up and leaving to go wander the continent with some merry band of misfits that just so happened to come carousing through one's town. Clerics have _responsibilities_. Clerics have _duties_ that need to be attended to.

Oh, but guess what? A religious ceremony that only takes place once every twenty years is about to unfold. Of course. And she wasn't even originally supposed to participate. Her sister was. But their father got sick, she had to take care of him, and Ophilia bravely volunteered to do it for her, because  _ of course _ she would. And, oh, would this happen to be a ceremony that takes place within the church? No, absolutely _not_. It's— get this— a whole fucking pilgrimage around the continent to the  _ other _ two main cathedrals, so,  _ oh _ , she would be  _ delighted  _ to join them as they headed towards Noblecourt and Goldshore, since, wouldn't you know it, one of the cathedrals just so happened to be there anyways! Outstanding. 

“I have to say, it almost feels like fate,” Ophilia observed, pleasant as ever. “Your timing is impeccable.”

The group was weaving back down the mountain pass, Cyrus melting a path for them like before. All of them seemed to be in a good mood (with Alfyn perhaps in the best mood, whistling and talking with anyone who would listen, which happened to be just about everyone).

Well, all of them aside from Therion, but what else was new?

_ From my perspective, I'd say our timing sucks,  _ he thought, scowling at the ground. More people. Of course they had somehow managed to pick up  _more people_.

“Perhaps it is some strange will of the gods,” mused Cyrus, calmly flicking another arc of fire over the snow. “We all need each other's help, after all, in some form or another.” 

_ Not me, _ Therion thought, rolling his eyes. Not anymore, anyways, and  _thank the gods for that._

“It does seem that way, yes,” nodded Ophilia. “I, personally, am grateful that you have decided to accompany me on this journey. I feel much safer around all of you.” 

“Aye, I am in accordance,” agreed H'aanit. “I knoweth little of the lower parts of the continent. Thine knowledge of the geography and the towns is of great help.”

Alfyn flashed them a brilliant smile. “Yeah, I'm happy, too. It's real nice to have all your guy's company. Makes travelin' all the more excitin’.”

Therion said nothing. 

“Hmm, though you might not admit it, Therion, you might secretly be glad, too, aren't you?” Cyrus supposed, earning a vague shrug. 

“... And why would you think that?” 

“It was a chance guess, for the most part. However, if I might be so bold, I do appear to have hit the mark. Your body language has gotten _much_ more defensive.”

“Sharp as the professor may be, ‘tis obvious to myself, as well,” H'aanit hummed, before Therion could snap at him for being nosy. “Thou mayest not be in need of us at the present time, and yet thou hast chosen regardless to remainen in our party.” 

“Uh,  _ yeah _ , because if that angry bear we dealt with an hour back is any indicator, it’s dangerous out here. It’d be pretty fucking stupid for me to wander off alone.” Never mind the fact that he almost did that very thing last night.

“It is quite dangerous, yes,” Ophilia agreed. “Not just because of animals, but many travelers end up getting lost and freezing to death.”

“The roads are rather difficult to see, yes,” said Cyrus. “It is challenging enough to see the majority of the trail markers during the day. I would hate to imagine how much worse it would be to keep on the path during a snowstorm, or at night. In fact, I would say that such an event would be nearly impossible.” 

Therion swore that he felt a few pairs of eyes on him then, but chose to ignore them. 

“But, in any case, it shan’t take us _nearly_ as much time going back down as it did going up. At any rate— Heavens, Therion, whyever are you giving me that look? Was it something I said...?”

Cyrus was right, however. The declining angle naturally sped things up, and the fact that nobody had to wait for Therion meant that they managed to get through the pass before the sun started to set, and they returned within the borders of the Flatlands. Therion was infinitely grateful to see snowless ground once more, and to feel a wind that was not snot-freezingly cold. 

“It’s funny,” Ophilia said, observing the scenery with a thoughtful gaze. “It’s been so long since I’ve been out of the Frostlands that I had almost forgotten that the rest of the continent isn’t snowy until late spring.”

_ Snowy until late  _ **_spring_ ** _?! _ thought Therion, aghast. Here he thought that the arid, sharp winters of the Cliftlands were bad, but this sounded like a new kind of hell. Why anyone would _willingly_ spend their life in a frigid, arctic wasteland was completely and utterly beyond him.

Alfyn let out an impressed whistle. “Whoa, your guys's winters sure are long in the Frostlands, huh?” 

Ophilia giggled. “Oh, yes. The snow starts to fall in early autumn, usually by the time one can see the harvest moon, and often persists until the first solstice. I don’t mind it too much, though. I think that the snow is quite beautiful, myself.” 

“Yeah? I think it’s pretty, too,” Alfyn enthused, stretching his arms over his head as they walked. “But man, I don’t know if I like winter  _ that  _ much. Cozyin’ up to the fire with cider is nice n’ all, but I really like spring, too.”

“I would suppose that spring is a good season for apothecaries, with all of the new plant growth,” said Cyrus. “Surely there are a good number of medicinal herbs that cease growing in the winter months.”

“Oh, definitely! Winter can be a real hard month for apothecaries, especially if we don’t keep track of our stocks. ‘Course, not all plants can really be preserved long into the winter, since some of them lose their effects over time, or just don’t store well in the first place, so those months are just worse to deal with anyways.” 

“... Were it winter, what wouldst thou do if one weren stricken ill, yet its cure groweth only in midsummer, and faren not well in storage?” wondered H’aanit, and Alfyn let out a breath. 

“Ah, that can definitely happen. There’s usually alternate cures and tonics if the primary one ain’t available, for whatever reason, but those don’t always work as well, or they might have a higher risk for side effects. Havin’ said that, though, they might end up workin’ better than the first one. With Therion, for example, I first tried usin’ flamesbane to settle his fever, which is the most popular remedy, since it doesn’t have any particular side effects, but I found I had to switch to white pine once I realized that his body just burned right through it.” 

Therion could still taste the white pine tonic if he thought back on it, and it send a shudder through his core.  _ Never again _ ...

“Now, uncomplicated fevers are usually pretty easy for me to treat, with or without pneumonia, regardless of the season. Obviously just about everything is gonna be more of a pain in the ass to treat in the winter for a whole bunch of reasons, but you're right, it can definitely be an issue if I just... don't happen to have —or be able to get— certain ingredients. Actually...”

He chuckled then, looking as if he'd just thought of something. “We can actually use Therion for another example.” 

Therion blinked, glancing over.

“... Huh?” he mumbled, trying to think of what he was talking about.

“Y'see, I actually met Therion by overhearin’ a conversation in a tavern. A group a bandits had assaulted him earlier in the day, and managed to poison him with somethin’ called falselily.”

“O-oh, how horrible!” exclaimed Ophilia, raising a hand to her mouth. 

Cyrus pursed his lips, thinking. “Hmm, I would not dare to call myself an expert in botanicals, but I do seem to recall reading that falselily was used in a multitude of political assassinations, due to both its effectiveness and its... ah,  _ extraordinarily _ unpleasant manner of death.”  

_ Extraordinarily unpleasant is right... _ thought Therion, grimacing. At least  _ that  _ was unlikely to ever happen to him again. 

“Oh, it wouldn't shock me too much, since it's a real shitty way to die. But the tricky thing about falselily is that it can only be cured with a complex panacea made with a base of crimsonberries. They don't store at all when prepared, they're a real pain in the ass to find... and they only grow for a single month out of the year.”

Therion felt his steps falter. _That_ was new information.

A murmur ran through the group. Apparently the rest of them didn't know this, either.

“I’m... almost afraid to ask, but what would you have done if this had been a month when the cure does not grow?” wondered Ophilia, timidly, and Alfyn’s lips pressed into a grim line.

“Ah, well... honestly, I probably would’ve just injected a sedative and held his hand until he passed.”

There was a silence for a moment, save for their footsteps over the path. Alfyn’s admission left the air around Therion feeling oddly heavy, almost viscous, and he didn’t know what to feel. Lucky? Unlucky?

_ If this were any other month of the year, I'd be long dead by now. _

“In that hypothetical situation, you still would have gone out of your way to find him, though, even though you would not be able to cure him?” Cyrus observed, and Alfyn nodded without hesitation. 

“‘Course I would’ve. Bein’ an apothecary isn’t just about givin’ medicine to people. Sometimes it’s just... bein’ there in the first place. Even if you can’t actually cure them, it’s still your job to help somehow.”

“Even if it’s just to ease their suffering...” Ophilia sighed, looking off over the treeline. “Healers of all sorts have the same burdens, it seems.”

Therion glanced over at Alfyn, at Ophilia, and found that they both wore similar expressions. Vague, distant, slightly remorseful. Even though they were young, both younger than him, their faces looked much older in that moment, weighed down with all of the souls that they were unable to save. 

He couldn’t help but to wonder how many people died in Alfyn’s arms. And, oddly enough, it wasn’t out of suspicion that he was bad at what he did, or as if he'd cut corners in their treatment. Rather, it was realizing that it was possible that the calluses on his hands might not have just been from cutting wood, but from helping to dig their graves, from personally helping to bear their coffins and laying them in the earth. He wasn’t the type of person to shrug his shoulders, shake his head and whisper to himself that he did all he could. Alfyn would personally drive a stake into his heart with every death under his care, wouldn’t he? He’d carve a notch into his memory and cry over their grave, lay wildflowers on the mound before their tombstone and mourn them like family. 

Him and Ophilia were the same kind of person, he thought, watching them reflect, and he felt a chasm at his feet separating them, a chain barring them apart, and Therion realized just how unlike them he really was. 

How many people had he stumbled across in situations similar to him? How many sick, injured, dying? How many had he noticed and kept walking, not getting involved, pretending he hadn’t seen it so he wouldn’t have to deal with it? 

It wasn’t quite the same thing, since he wasn’t a healer and only knew the most basic of first aid, but what would everyone else think of him not even  _ trying _ ? 

Would Alfyn think of him differently, then, if he knew that he might have somehow been able to save more people but didn’t? That he might have looked a drunk choking on his own vomit in the eyes and ducked away, crushing the guilt beneath his heel and slipping out of the alleyway? That he’s seen children starving and didn’t rip off a piece of his bread to share? That he saw a woman get stabbed to death and all he could do was run away, choking back bile and tears and hoping that the man wouldn’t come after him, too?

What would Alfyn think of  _ that _ ?

Alfyn caught his gaze and, for a moment, the tiredness in his eyes carried over. Therion could see the deaths, and more layered underneath it. He saw the sleepless nights spent frantically trying to brew a cure, the frustration when a poultice was rejected by the body, the misery when a tonic failed. But, Alfyn smiled and all of it was wiped away, shelved for another time, and Therion wondered how he did that. He supposed that it might not have been much different from himself, how he shivered and took deep breaths and wiped the blood from his dagger, spitting out the rush of saliva before he crouched down and threw up in front of  _ him _ . 

_ He _ never took kindly to him being weak, especially once he had supposedly grown too old to cry. 

“What’cha thinkin’ about, Therion?” Alfyn wondered, and he scoffed. 

“... Just about how annoying you are,” he replied, unsure why  _ that _ was the first thing he came up with, and Alfyn just laughed.

“Hey now, I haven’t even done anythin’ this time!” he protested, playfully. “You’ve got every right to say that when I’m pesterin’ you about somethin’, but here I am, mindin’ my own business, an’ you say that anyways. Ouch.” 

His smile was genuine, bright like the sun, and Therion didn’t understand.

“... I was rude to you. Why do you still sound happy?” Therion wondered, and Alfyn’s smile somehow became more charming.

“Maybe I’m just flattered that you were thinkin’ about me in the first place,” he quipped, shooting Therion a wink, and he flushed and turned away, glaring into his scarf. Alfyn’s laugh filled the air, and Ophilia’s light giggles joined in shortly after that. They laughed as if they’d been friends for years, and Therion shook the feelings away, focused on the dirt under his feet.

Those two could be friends. All of them could be friends, if they wanted. 

Just not with him.

Evening came, and the five of them started to set up camp. Like usual, he contributed nothing except for setting up his own bedroll and lighting the fire, if only because everybody seemed enthralled by his simple magic (including Cyrus, even though he surely had about a thousand times more power in his own flames), and also because perhaps he wasn’t quite strong enough to convince himself that he hated the attention. 

As they were getting the camp ready, H’aanit had gone off and managed to pick off a couple of rabbits. She skinned and gutted them as if it were second nature, allowing Linde to snack on whichever entrails she wished (much to Ophilia’s horror), and dressed them with forest herbs and spices. The camp was soon filled with the scent of dinner roasting over the flames, and Therion’s stomach growled. They had been walking for a long time, after all, and he had come to the unwilling conclusion that H’aanit was, in fact, a superb cook. 

As dinner was served, Therion broke free from the group to sit on a stump with his food. He ate quietly and looked off at the distance, thinking. They were in a thin patch of woods, so as to stay hidden from passerby. That meant that there wasn’t a lot to see, especially now that the day was ending. But, Therion still watched the rays of light comb through the trunks, listened to the last calls of the evening birds in the branches, watched as the brightest of the stars started to speckle what sky he could see through the canopy. It was peaceful, even with the chatter from the other travelers in the background, laughing and talking and joking around.

Even now, he could leave. It wouldn’t be hard to slip away into the dying light and disappear down the trail. He could probably end up making it to Noblecourt by the time morning crept over the horizon, and by the time the others even noticed he was gone, he’d have the dragonstone. By the time they entered the city gates, he’d be too far ahead for them to ever end up catching up.

He’d be alone again, just like how he wanted. Nobody to cook meals for him, nobody to talk his ear off about history, nobody to pray for him every morning before breakfast. 

Nobody to dress his wounds, nobody to drive him up with wall with his whistling, nobody to smear salve over his wrist whenever he picked at the skin underneath.

He could. This time, he really could. 

But, he wouldn’t. 

Something occurred to him then, as he flung the bones into the bushes. He had his back to the camp the entire time. Not once did he suspect that one of them would use that moment of carelessness to kill him. 

He didn’t know how to feel about that. 

Night fell, and a light wind blew through the trees. Therion returned to the circle by the fire, warming his hands. Though it wasn’t overly late, Cyrus and Ophilia had started to get ready for bed. And, when they were cozy in their bedrolls, Ophilia ended up falling asleep first. Therion marveled at how, though this was her first night away from the cathedral in fifteen years (and surrounded by near-strangers, to boot), she still cast aside whatever suspicions she might have possessed... and fell asleep. She had no weapons near her, and her posture was loose and relaxed, trusting.

Was it stupidity, naivete? Did she really, truly, _honestly_ not think that one of them wouldn’t hurt her? That none of them were  _ capable  _ of it? 

For a moment, he became hyperaware of the weight of his dagger on his thigh. 

And he recoiled, shivered and looked towards the fire, trying to shake away the thought of burying a knife into her throat. 

_ What the fuck is  _ **_wrong_ ** _ with you, Therion? _

H’aanit went to keep watch, with Linde following at her heels. In his bedroll, Cyrus was holding a book above his head. A faint glow was emanating from his hands, presumably so he could actually see the words, and he turned the pages with an enraptured stare. 

Alfyn stacked another log on the fire and sat back in his place next to Therion, watching the sparks flickering in and out of the blackness.

“How’re ya doin’, buddy?” he asked, towards Therion, and he gave a vague shrug.

“... Alright,” he answered. Not terrible, really, though not superb.

“Well, hey, that’s not so bad, then. Glad to hear you’re doin’ okay.”

Sincere as ever. Therion didn’t answer. 

Alfyn, as usual, didn’t mind. He just started to pull out some ingredients from his bag. 

“I’m makin’ some tea,” Alfyn explained, getting a pot ready. “Did you want some?” 

Therion shrugged again. “Sure, I guess.” 

Alfyn smiled. “Nice, okay. I’ll make some for ya, too, then. Didja like the ginger from last time? I’ve still got some of that, if ya want.” 

_ Sure, what the hells.  _ Therion still thought ginger to be a weird flavour, but it really wasn’t bad, by any means. “... Okay.” 

“Perfect. I’ll use some a that, then. Do you have an opinion on chamomile?”

Chamomile? Therion’s expression went blank as he tried to recall what that tasted like, and Alfyn giggled. 

“I’m guessin’ you don’t know, then. It’s real mild. Floral. Lots’ve people like to drink it before bed, since they find it soothin’.” 

Therion supposed that that was fine.

Alfyn added some dried flowers to the pot. 

“How about lemon?” he asked, showing the dried rinds to Therion (as if he didn’t know what a fucking lemon tasted like), and he nodded. In the pot it went. 

“It sounds like a real strange combination, hey?” he asked, adding some honey from a jar to the mixture. “Lemon, ginger, and chamomile. Or, well, I guess if you knew what chamomile tasted like, you might think it kinda weird. I promise it’s real tasty. Or, at least, I think it is. I mean, this is what my mom liked to make for us before bed, so maybe I’m just used to it.” 

He opened his palms and created enough ice to make three cups of tea. 

There was a peaceful silence then, as the tea started to steep over the fire. 

“... Something’s been bothering me,” Therion eventually said, watching Alfyn’s eyes instantly warp from worry.

“Yeah? What’s up, bud?” 

“... On the first morning, I woke up before you."

"Uh-huh."

"And every single morning after that, _you’ve_ woken up before me. Why did that happen?” 

Alfyn blinked, confused, then laughed so hard that Cyrus snapped out of his trance and glanced over, eyebrows raised. Alfyn waved him away, still giggling. 

“ _ Therion _ ,” he said, so warmly that Therion’s cheeks turned pink. “Are ya tellin’ me that you’ve been bothered by  _ that _ ? My sleepin’ patterns?” 

_ Well when you put it  _ **_that_ ** _ way, it sounds pretty stupid. _ “W-well,  _ look _ . I just—” He made a nebulous, frustrated sort of gesture. “—I don’t know. I assumed you were the kind of person who  _ liked  _ sleeping in. And... my impressions of people aren’t often wrong.” 

Alfyn listened to his flustered, hasty explanation with a deeply amused smile, then chuckled.

“Well, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about there. You’re right about me likin’ to sleep in. If I could get away with it, I’d sleep in every damn day and I'd be perfectly happy from it.”

“So then, why...?” 

Alfn shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Well, on that first mornin’, I saw that you were up before me. So I just started wakin’ up earlier so I could get your medicine ready for ya by the time you woke up.” 

That was... it? Therion didn’t know what to say to that. 

“‘Course, now that you’re doin’ better, I’m probably gonna go back to sleepin’ in. Y’know, until someone  _ else  _ happens to get in a situation kinda like that.” 

Therion thought on that, listening to the soft simmering of the tea. It smelled floral, light, slightly spicy from the ginger.

Something else was bothering him. It had been sitting in the back of his mind for hours, nagging at him like a pebble in his shoe, and he looked over at Alfyn again.

“... You didn’t mention that before. That crimsonberries only grow this time of the year.” 

Alfyn shook his head. “I didn’t.” 

“Why not?”

“Didn’t really feel like I should, I guess. You already don’t trust me all that much. Can’t really blame you for it, but anyways. Because of that, I didn’t really want to make it seem as if I was layin’ the guilt on, or anythin’. Like oh, look at me go, makin’ this expensive panacea for you out of the goodness of my own heart, and,  _ oh, _ by the way, didja know that crimsonberries  _ also _ only grow for one month outta the year? I mean... while you don’t trust easily, you’re still an honest person. It’d probably feel as if I was just tryin’ to wring sympathy payment outta you or somethin’.”

Well, when he put it that way, it did sound fair. Therion was still a touch dissatisfied, but he supposed that that was the best conclusion he could have come to. 

“I still don’t get why you don’t ask for anything,” Therion muttered, and Alfyn smiled. 

“Sometimes I don’t get it either. I still feel’ pretty bad about moochin’ off’ve everyone else whenever we hit up an inn... or a tavern... or anythin’ else, really.” 

_ Then why don’t you just start charging people...? _ thought Therion, but he knew better than to ask. He knew what the response would be. 

Alfyn opened his satchel to find a ladle, and went to check the tea. His back was turned. For a precious moment, his bag was left unlatched and unattended.

Then, Therion had an idea. 

A strange, impulsive, wildly-out-of-character idea. 

He had no idea  _ why _ , but his fingers dipped into his open bag without a sound, pulling his coinpurse out and settling it beneath his cloak. But, rather than simply pocketing all of its contents and putting it back, Therion did something that he’s never done before in his life— he filled it with his own money. Or, rather, someone else’s money, but the point remained. He filled it until it was bulging and heavy (probably heavier than it's ever been, he realized) and put it back in the satchel before he noticed. 

His heart pounded beneath his ribs, and he realized that he felt far more of a thrill from that than any theft he’s done in the past decade.

Just then, Alfyn pushed a warm cup into Therion’s hands with a smile. He didn't seem aware of what Therion had just done.

And as he looked at him with those big brown eyes, it almost felt perfectly natural that he would secretly slip an obscene amount of leaves into his bag to repay him. 

“It’s pretty hot, so be careful now, okay?” Alfyn warned, giving him a small pat on the shoulder before going to bring a cup to H’aanit.

Therion nodded and stared into the depths of the cup, watching the petals settling along the bottom. Despite not having actually touched any of his skin, his shoulder still felt warm from where Alfyn had put his hand.

He didn't really know what that meant, if anything.

Having given the huntress her tea, Alfyn returned to the fire and poured the last of the pot into his cup. He then took his place back on his bedroll, sitting down ungracefully enough that he nearly sloshed his drink over his hand. Therion rolled his eyes.

The two of them sat there in a rare silence, each blowing on the fragrant curls of steam. 

“Where are you gonna go?” Alfyn wondered, and Therion gave him a questioning look. “After Noblecourt, I mean.”

“... Back to Bolderfall, I guess,” he replied, shrugging, and Alfyn nodded. 

“Mm, okay. I’m guessin’ that’s where the house you’re, ah...  _ ‘employed’ _ by happens to be?”

“... Mhm,”

There was another moment of silence. Therion tried to sample his tea and burned his tongue.  _Fuck._

“Too hot?” wondered Alfyn, and Therion hissed and nodded, making a face. 

“I could give ya an ice cube if you wanted, but that’s about as far as my trainin’ll get me here,” Alfyn said, playfully, and, to his surprise, Therion huffed out something that could probably be interpreted as a laugh, maybe. 

Time passed, and the tea cooled to a drinkable temperature. Alfyn sipped it, and Therion tentatively did the same. 

“Tastes okay?” Alfyn asked, and Therion nodded.

“... Yeah. It’s... nice, actually,” he admitted. 

Alfyn smile was somehow brighter than the campfire they were seated next to, and Therion looked away, feeling something close to self-consciousness. “Well, hey! That's good to hear. Here I was, kinda worried that it would taste weird to ya, so I'm real glad that you like it, too.”

He did. It was strong from the ginger, but not necessarily invigorating, due to the presence of the chamomile. The touch of honey lent it a gentle sweetness, and Therion took in another mouthful.

The fire crackled. In the background, Cyrus slowly turned a page. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything aside from the world in his book.

“... I'm sorry that I keep pesterin’ you about your plans,” Alfyn eventually sighed, pulling Therion’s attention back. “I know it must be annoying. I'm just havin’ a lot of fun travelin’ with you, y'know? And maybe it's selfish of me, but... it's been makin’ me feel pretty bummed that you'll be partin’ ways with us soon.”

_ So he finally admits that he's gotten attached,  _ thought Therion, staring more intently into his cup. 

“You're... trying to convince me to stay,” said Therion, and he heard a small exhale from Alfyn soon after. 

“I... I know it's selfish, but... yeah. I am.”

Well. Despite having been sure of it for a while, Therion had no clue what to say to that now that he actually  _ told _ him. 

“And, I mean, I don't wanna force you or nothin’,” Alfyn continued, a bit awkwardly. “Like, I want you around, but obviously only if  _ you  _ wanna be here in the first place. There's nothin’ sayin’ that you've gotta be here, with m— _ us _ , but, shit, I dunno, it's just more fun to travel with others, I think. Like, even though we probably annoy you to the point of you wantin’ to rip your hair out sometimes, or somethin’, just... I dunno, Therion. I know you're not really a  _ connections _ kinda guy, but... all of us  _ like  _ your company, even though you might not really feel the same. We'll be pretty sad when we’ll eventually have to wave goodbye to ya. I mean, I know  _ I _ sure will, heheh.”

Therion blinked at his rambling, surprised at the volume of words that had just come out of him, then realized something— Alfyn was  _ nervous. _

Why... would he be nervous?

Therion searched his expression, noting the tension in his smile, the uncomfortable creases between his eyes, the hint of pleading overall, and he got the vague sense that he was scaring him.

“Um... I have a request. If that’s okay,” Alfyn said, breaking eye contact. 

“... Depends on what it is,” Therion replied, watching him reach up to shove a hand through his hair.  _ Nervous tic...? _

“Just, ah... y’know, since you’re plannin’ on leavin’ and all... Just, um, please don’t just... _disappear_ , okay?” 

Therion knew exactly what he meant, but he raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate anyways. 

“Look. Just... even though, out’ve all of us, you’re the most likely to run off and vanish in the middle of the night, we still wouldn’t...  _ know _ if that’s what you chose to do. Sure, it’d be the smartest conclusion to come to, but we wouldn’t have any way to confirm that you... y’know, that you _didn’t_ get dragged off by a monster, or hurt somehow, or lost, or... You get the picture, dont’cha?” 

He got the picture. 

“So, um... while we’ll obviously be sad to see ya go, I just... I want you to tell us when, okay? Just so we won’t be up all night lookin’ for ya. Or, y’know, layin’ around in twenty years wonderin’ just what happened to ya... wonderin’ if we could’ve saved you, or at least got the chance to see you off properly. Okay?”

A weight settled on his tongue, fell and lodged itself in his throat. What was there to say to  _ that _ , when his entire plan— no, his entire  _ life _ — was built on running away? How could he promise anything to someone when he wasn’t  _ made _ for this, for seeing things through, for admitting that he cared enough in the first place to go out of his way to allow them closure? 

How could he promise something like that to him without intending to tell the truth? 

Therion felt shivery, shaky. He’d barely even repaid him for all of the work he’s put into him, hadn't he? Sure, he might have stuffed his coinpurse full, might have given him enough to cover the labour of his poisoning, but was that really enough? Was that a fair compensation for realigning his bones, restoring his eyesight, covering him in salve, wrapping his wounds, carrying him up a mountain, easing a fever and curing pneumonia, giving him food and water and wiping the stickiness of sweat off of his forehead with a cool cloth? Was it anywhere  _ near _ enough for what he had done for him, for free, for fun, just because it was the right thing to do?

Even though he's been nothing but  _horrible_ to him, this whole time?

_ He chose to live this way, _ part of him thought, but his mother’s gentle fingers combed through his hair and she clicked her tongue, shaking her head. 

_ Therion, my dear, wouldn’t you rather go to sleep knowing that you did the right thing? Even though it might be more of a hassle than simply running away? _

At the time, he had said yes. 

Now?

“... No promises.” 

And Alfyn’s smile didn’t quite loosen up completely, but it did look more relieved than before, less anxious.

“‘No promises’ ain’t a ‘no’.” 

_ But it’s not a ‘yes’, either. _


	11. Two Letters (Two Very, Very Different Letters)

_ You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. _

“... You want me to get...  _ what _ for you?”

The scholar  _ (Barham? Was that his name _ ?) blinked patiently, as if he had been expecting that response.

“Oasis water,” he repeated. “Water filtered through the pure desert sands and warmed by the sun. I’ll need it for an experiment, you see.”

Therion stared at him, waiting to see if he was kidding, but Barham didn’t budge. He simply looked at him with the same mild expression that Cyrus wore when he was allowing someone to speak their opinion, and it irritated him. Why were scholars  _ like this _ ? 

He pulled in a breath, held it, let it out in a hiss. _Don't throttle him, Therion. Don't throttle him._  “... And... just  _ what _ is so special about this water?” 

Therion almost didn’t want to ask, as he expected to hear him immediately launch into a long, exhaustively boring explanation of all of the magical properties of this fucking  _ sand water _ , but he didn’t. He simply, to his further irritation, gave a small laugh. 

“I’d gladly tell you, but I can tell above all else that you don’t particularly care about what I have to say about it,” he replied, smiling wryly. “All I can say is that, due to its purity and a trace chemical compound within it unique to that _particular_ region of the Sunlands, it will lend to the success of my experiment.” 

That was great and all, but Therion still didn’t understand why he had to jump through  _ this _ hoop to get to the dragonstone. Why he couldn’t just conveniently  _ tell him  _ the password was beyond him. 

“... Okay, that’s great and all, but where the hells do you think I’m going to  _ find _ this kind of water?” demanded Therion, crossing his arms under his shawl. “In case you haven’t noticed, old man, we’re a little  _ far _ from the desert.” 

Barham rolled his eyes. Grateful as he was for Therion’s (reluctant) offer to help, his attitude was still... wearying. “Shockingly, I am aware of that fact. I’m hardly asking for you to walk to the desert and bring a bottle back to my house yourself.” 

“... You’re saying that someone here in town would have some,” Therion supposed, receiving a nod. 

“That’s it. You see, there’s a certain merchant that stops by here for a week or so of every month, and his wares include several bottles of Oasis Water.”

“... This week had  _ better  _ be the one where he’s in town,” Therion muttered. Considering everything  _ else _ that had happened before getting to Noblecourt, he wasn’t in any sort of mood to have to wait  _ longer _ for the dragonstone. 

_ If only the guards didn’t have crossbows... _ Therion thought, sighing. Quick as he was, he wasn’t  _ quite  _ able to dodge a bolt from a crossbow.

“Conveniently, it is,” conceded Barham, moving to look out the window. He faced towards the upper plazas, where merchants tended to gather. “In fact, he should be up the steps right about now.” 

Therion’s eyes narrowed then. “If he’s right there, then why do you need  _ me _ to get it for you?” 

Barham turned back towards him, opening his palms in a  _ look-around-us _ gesture. “I cannot afford to purchase it myself.”

Therion doubted that he was lying there— the starkness of the house and the cracks in the walls told him enough about his financial state. If this water was really as rare and as pure as Barham claimed, it probably wouldn’t come cheap. 

“... Hmph,” Therion snorted, shifting his feet. “... And... what makes you think  _ I  _ can?”

“... Do forgive me for being presumptuous,” Barham said, nearly in a drawl. “But I doubt that you can afford it, as well.” 

Therion scoffed. He was  _ right _ , and he had implied it in the first place anyways, but he still didn’t like it being pointed out quite like that.

“However, don’t think that I didn’t notice that bangle on your wrist, young man.” Barham added, and Therion gave a sarcastic laugh.

“... So you want me to steal it for you.”

“I never said  _ that _ ,” replied Barham, with a note of irony in his tone. “You may acquire it however you wish. All I am saying is that I need this water, and you evidently need this dragonstone just as much.  _ How  _ you get the water to me is up to you.” 

He did need the dragonstone. 

And, because he needed the dragonstone, he grumbled something about scholars being annoying pricks before leaving and climbing the town steps in a curdled mood. Fuck him. Fuck his experiment, fuck this so-called ‘Oasis Water’, fuck this city, fuck everything. 

_ Hey, Heathcote, I haven’t forgotten about you, too. Fuck you in particular. _

Thankfully, in all the calico of the lower-class and the taffeta of the wealthy, the sumptuous brocades of a Sunlands merchant stood out almost immediately. He was middle-aged and ruggedly handsome, with dark skin and a charismatic smile. At his feet, there was a collection of identical bottles filled with a clear liquid. A small crowd of onlookers stood around him in a semicircle, murmuring amongst themselves.

_ Don’t mind if I do, thanks, _ thought Therion, slipping into the throng. 

When he re-emerged, he had a bottle tucked away underneath his shawl, and he headed back to Barham’s house. The temptation to spit in the water was almost overwhelming, but he decided not to, since Barham probably wasn’t going to be drinking it anyways.

_ Fucking scholars. _

Surely, Therion thought, that that would be the end of it, but he quickly found that Barham wasn’t done with him quite yet. Not ten seconds after receiving the bottle, he sent him right back out on a quest to get a  _ wyvern scale, _ of all things, and Therion’s mood worsened.  _ Sure, yeah, let’s get a fucking  _ **_wyvern scale_ ** _ from Aelfric-fucking-knows where. Sounds great, honestly.  _

He stomped his way through town until he —conveniently—  came across an importer of monster parts, and lifted a wyvern scale from him without any particular effort. It was easy to do, as it was only about the size of his palm, and he stormed his way back to Barham’s house to get the password.

Only thing was, he  _ didn’t  _ end up with the password because he was sent out  _ yet again _ , this time in search of a particular type of crystal ore. Therion’s mood was exceptionally dour by that point, which meant that —even if people  _ had _ seen him pinch the ore off of the mineral seller— they probably wouldn’t have done a single thing to stop him. 

Honestly, Therion was so fed up that he wouldn’t have even  _ minded  _ to pick a fight with some up-and-comer guardsmen, or whoever the fuck Noblecourt happened to sic on those that were trapped in fetch quests for eccentric scholars.

_ Heathcote, if I just so happen to see your wrinkly fucking face around here... _

He didn’t bother knocking or anything this time around. Therion just opened the door as if it were his own personal house and dropped the hunk of ore into Barham’s palm without a word. Barham rolled his eyes and accepted it, and immediately started the experiment. 

“... Was there anything  _ else _ that you wanted?” demanded Therion, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Bread, milk, eggs?” 

“Oh, hush, now,” Barham muttered, pouring the Oasis Water into a beaker. “I have no need for you to acquire anything else for me.” 

“Well, isn’t that a relief,” Therion replied, flatly. “Now, since I’ve done all this to help with your little science project, can I  _ please _ have the password?” 

Barham looked up from his work and gave a small, tired sigh. 

“This ‘science project’ is actually to help you, young man,” he said, and Therion’s brow furrowed. “Once it’s done, I shall give you the password.”

Therion hadn’t honestly anticipated that all of this was to help his cause, and he didn’t really have a response prepared. He just watched the scholar in silence, turning his words over in his mind. Help him?

“Perhaps it’s an odd sort of coincidence that you would come to me seeking information of the dragonstone,” Barham said, pouring mixtures from several vials into the beaker. “I have been long concerned about the effect of it on my dear friend, Orlick.” 

“... Concerned?” repeated Therion, and Barham nodded. 

“Indeed. I don’t intend to bore you with the details, but Orlick and I have been close friends for... most of our lives, I’d say. We studied together at the Royal Academy, and went on to become research partners.” 

“... Obviously that didn’t last,” Therion supposed, and Barham gave a tired noise of acknowledgement as he placed the scale aside.

“No. He had managed to procure the dragonstone at some point, and set about attempting to research it. Naturally, I endorsed it in the beginning, and even attempted to help with it.” 

He lit a flame beneath the beaker, heating the liquid. 

“It took two years, perhaps, but it became clear that his research was progressing beyond the point of a simple curiosity,” continued Barham, taking out several other materials from the shelves. “It became closer to an obsession. He would analyse it all through the night and sleep through the morning. All discussions inevitably cycled back towards it. If it didn’t pertain to the mysteries of the dragonstone, he lacked interest. And while I, too, have pursued certain topics that were of similar interest to me... this still... felt like a bit much.” 

Barham took the ore and carefully deposited it in the beaker. Therion presumed that it would melt over the heat. 

“... So you broke ties with him,” Therion supposed, and Barham looked up. 

“I did, yes. I hadn’t a choice. I had once attempted, after all, to stop this madness by confiscating the stone, intending to hide it away, or perhaps even pass it off to someone else, but he flew into a blind rage and attempted to resort to violence. After that, I severed our research partnership and withdrew all of my assistance and supplies.” 

As he spoke, Therion could hear a note of dissatisfaction in his tone, a touch mournful, and he started to understand. 

“... You miss what you had,” he ventured, and Barham laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound, though. 

“Funny as it is, I do. Intolerable as he could be, he was still a close friend of mine. I might... even dare to say that we were like brothers.” 

_ Brothers _ . Now that was a word that left Therion with a very strange feeling inside.

He had no siblings, but there was once someone who he might have tentatively called a brother, at times. 

Incidentally, that person did occasionally call himself and Therion  _ brothers _ , but in retrospect, it was really only whenever he was trying to convince Therion to do anything for him. 

He also conveniently dropped the title whenever Therion’s face was being pushed into the bed, but he had chosen to overlook it, at the time. 

“So that’s why you’re helping me,” Therion said. “Because you want me to take the stone away to convince you two to talk.” 

“That’s exactly it,” Barham nodded, pouring the hot liquid into a mold he had made with the wyvern scale. “As long as the stone remains in his possession, he is not the man I was once friends with. Once you take the stone away... I hope that he will see the error of his ways.” 

It didn’t take long for the mixture to set, and Barham removed a smooth, triangular item from the mold. He passed it to Therion, who found that it was still warm, crystal-clear, and shockingly light. 

“This is a key,” Barham explained, watching Therion examine it. “The lock to the laboratory only reacts to this particular set of elements within it.” 

“... What do I do with it?” he asked, brow furrowing. It had no teeth, or any handle in particular. 

“Oh, it’s very simple. You will see an indent beside the door to the lab. You simply orient the key in to proper direction, insert it in the indent, and turn the mechanism clockwise until you hear a click. The door will then be unlocked.”

Therion supposed he could do that. 

“I also have an additional thing for you to bring to him,” Barham said, passing a sealed envelope to Therion. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“A letter?” he said, turning it in his palm. It was sealed, and had nothing written on it aside from Orlick’s name.

“Very observant, boy. Yes, I have penned a letter for him describing my thoughts on the situation. About his research, about our friendship... Details like that. I would appreciate it immensely if you could deliver it to him somehow, while you’re there.” 

His tone was heavy, but hopeful. Therion realized that he didn’t want for him to kill Orlick if at all possible.

It wasn’t really part of the arrangement, but he supposed that it wouldn’t be hard to replace the dragonstone with the letter and leave. He accepted it and tucked it beneath his shawl.

“Now, as to the password...” 

The password was unexpected, as passwords often were, and Therion mulled it over as he climbed the steps towards the manse. _The truth of all things?_

He had the password, but he still needed to convince the guards to let him in. As he passed by the townsfolk and the market stalls, he thought. What could he say that could convince them to let him through?

The letter pressed into his stomach, and he figured that, since he was going to walk through the front doors anyways, he had might as well tell the truth, to a certain degree.

The manor loomed in the distance, imposing against the grove of trees surrounding it. Therion had already checked earlier that day for a back entrance or an unlocked window, and had almost ended up getting shot in the ass when a guard came around a corner sooner than he had anticipated.

Hopefully that same guard wouldn’t be there now. 

“Halt!!” one of the guards called, hefting his crossbow, and Therion stopped before them, looking them over. A pair of young men, barely any older than him. Perfect. 

“Good evening,” he greeted, morphing his tone into something much milder than he might normally use. “I have a letter to deliver to Orlick. Apparently it’s urgent, and pertains somehow to his research.” 

He took the letter out, holding it before them. The guards glanced at each other, uncertain. 

“A letter?” one of them ventured, regarding Therion with mixed suspicion and curiosity. 

“Don’t recall him saying anything about a letter,” the other replied, pursing his lips. 

“Oh?” Therion continued, puzzled. “How strange... I don’t suppose that he hadn’t told you?” 

The guards wracked their brains, thinking. 

“Ah, well, no matter. Messages get mixed and lost down the line sometimes, after all,” sighed Therion. “Especially those of importance, ironically enough...” 

One of the guards made a murmur of assent. He seemed to agree. 

“That’s true enough, I suppose,” the other said, if a bit reluctantly.

“If it’s for his research, we may allow you to pass,” the first guard said. “However, you will have been supplied with a password. What is it?” 

Therion gave a small smile, as if the answer was refreshingly obvious. “‘The truth of all things’.”

It had occurred to him that there was a chance that Barham had given him the wrong password, or that he had somehow set a trap up here, but the guards merely nodded and stepped aside, setting their crossbows at their feet. 

“Very well. You shall pass.” 

Therion gave a slight bow. “Much obliged.” 

With that, he passed them by and stepped into the manse.  _Thank the gods for naive guardsmen._

Though not the most sumptuous mansion he’s ever been in, it was still much more elegant than anything he was used to. There were no paintings on the walls, so it felt a bit bare, but the curtains were embroidered and the furniture was upscale. The well-kept floors were silent beneath his feet as he crept along towards the lab. 

He eventually came to an ornate door, and the bizarre lock next to it told him immediately which room it was.  

_ So this is the lab... _ he thought, rifling through his pocket for the key.  _ Should everything go smoothly, the dragonstone should be in here. _

He fitted the key in the lock as per Barham's instructions, and as he turned it, he heard a clicking sound from the lock disengaging. The door was successfully unlocked. 

_ That was almost too easy... _ he thought, stepping into into the lab. 

He braced himself for the inevitable flurry of angry words, the shatter of a vial being dropped as he was spotted, but nothing came. Orlick was not in the lab, and that suited him just fine.  

So, he boldly crossed the room towards the center table, where a large stone sat in a stand, and he took it. 

_ So this is the dragonstone... _ he thought, hefting it in his palm. It was large, heavy, and fiery red, bursting with colour. Though it wasn’t faceted, it still seemed just as beautiful as any cut gemstone he’d seen. 

For a moment, he wondered just how much it might fetch in the black markets.

But, he knew well enough that this stone likely wouldn't be seeing any more shady markets anytime soon. It had an owner to get back to, after all.

_ And I have a bangle to remove... _

So, with that, he balanced the letter on the stand and left, exiting back the way he came and disappearing down the road.

He re-entered the main portion of the town. It had gotten dark, and the bustle of the day had softened into something much quieter. In the background, a clock played its chime. Eight o'clock. This set of errands had taken him a  _ lot  _ longer than he'd anticipated, and he trudged his way to the tavern. He was tired. Tired, and thirsty, and hungry, and frazzled. It had been a long time since had he had last been so eager to sit down and drink until he felt leaden. 

But, by the gods, he  _ deserved _ it after being made to play butler for a fucking  _ scholar. _

The tavern came into view, bright and lively and already busy, and he peered in the windows as he passed. His travelling companions were all at a table by the bar, talking amongst themselves. A seat was empty, and Therion realized that it was probably being saved for him.  

He sighed and pushed the tavern door open. A bell rang overhead, announcing his arrival, but it was noisy enough in there that most of the patrons didn’t appear to notice. 

One did, however, and that was Alfyn. He turned in his seat and, as soon as he caught a glimpse of his face, his expression brightened immensely. 

“Oh! Hey!” he called, giving Therion a friendly wave. 

He nodded and took the remaining chair. He was placed in between Alfyn and Cyrus, and the latter scooted over slightly to give him some room. All of them had mugs of ale before them (save for Ophilia, who seemed to be drinking hot chocolate), and Therion nodded for the bartender to bring him an ale, too. A mug was filled and placed before him, and he took a sip.

“So how’d it go?” wondered Alfyn, and Therion cast a furtive glance around before reaching into his pocket.

“... Went fine,” he replied, pulling out his haul with a subtle motion. Alfyn caught a glimpse of it, and made a soft “ _ oooohhh _ ” sound. Therion supposed that he could understand his fascination. It sparkled wonderfully even in the dim light, and Therion realized that this was probably the largest gemstone he’s ever seen in his hick life. Even if it  _ weren’t _ one of these dragonstones, he’d probably still find it just as stunning.

“Ohoh,” Cyrus breathed, and he delicately took the stone from Therion’s hands with a delighted noise. Therion reached for it and muttered something about giving it back, but Cyrus simply held up his free hand, turning the stone over in his palm.

“A dragonstone, is it...?” he murmured, letting the light shine through it, and Therion managed to snatch it back. 

“Apparently,” he shrugged, stowing it back in his pockets. 

“That’s quite a treasure indeed,” said Cyrus, admiringly. “That just so happens to be one of a very rare set of stones. Unfortunately, little is widely known about their purpose. All that is known of them is that they are necessary in a ceremony involving the dark god Galdera, but it isn’t exactly clear as to whether or not that simply means that they would aid in helping to return his power, or if they may open a portal...” 

“Don’t know, don’t really care,” Therion said, tipping back a mouthful of ale. The dragonstones could turn everything they touched into mud, for all he cared.

Cyrus seemed a bit put out that Therion wasn't interested, and H'aanit took pity on him and asked him to explain it to her, which he launched into with gusto.

“You’ve just got a job to do, eh?” supplied Alfyn, and Therion nodded. 

_ Just a job, so I can get this bangle off and get out.  _

“I admire your dedication,” complemented Ophilia, and he scoffed.

“Bastards roped me into this. It’s not like I’m doing this out of my own free will.” 

“Perhaps not, and yet, you have not attempted to unclip the bangle from your wrist,” observed Cyrus, who had just finished his mini-lesson, and Therion scowled. “Surely someone as skilled as you could prise it open in no time, hmm?”

He could, in theory, though it might require getting someone else to use the tension wrench. And while he  _ might _ be able to convince one of the others to help him with it...

He had still never  _ really _ considered it, and wasn’t about to start. Why that was, he didn’t know. 

“Look,” Therion said, gesturing towards him with his mug. “Just because I’m a thief doesn’t mean that I’m  _ completely _ dishonest. I fucked up. So this is... what I get.”

“I mean, I guess, but...” Alfyn ventured, but he didn't continue his train of thought. That suited Therion just fine, since he wasn't much in the mood to try and bicker about what he did and didn’t deserve right about then.

There was a small, thoughtful silence after that. 

“... I hath said, ‘pon our meeting, that Alfyn art noble,” mused H'aanit, flicking her gaze towards the thief. “... But, Therion, thou art noble, as well. Thief or no, thine honesty art worthy of commendation.”

_ Honesty? _

He scoffed into his ale. “Funny, hearing that from someone whose first greeting to me was to pin my by the chain with a  _ knife _ .”

Ophilia gasped and turned to look at the huntress, eyes wide. Apparently nobody had told her the story of their first meeting.

“Indeed, your stance on thieves does seem to have changed somewhat, H’aanit,” said Cyrus, cocking his head, and she shrugged. 

“Mine stance hath not changed. Thievery art a profession in itself. Mine aggression weren not due to the fact that Therion art a thief. It hath stemmed from his being in S’warkii, with a lack of supervision.” 

Ophilia giggled. “You simply didn’t like the thought of him possibly stealing from your fellow townsfolk, H’aanit?” 

She nodded. “Aye. Myself and my Master hath been selected as guardians for the village. It is our duty to protecten them from whatever harm may befellen them... thievery included.”

“Aww, so you were just tryin’ to protect everyone?” said Alfyn, and she nodded again. 

“Aye, that weren all I was doing. I hath not meant to cause offense.” 

_ Didn’t really offend me as much as make me wonder if I was going to get eaten by your fucking snow leopard, but whatever. _

It was getting late. They drank for a while, Therion realized, when the third, fourth, fifth mug on either side hit the table. However, none of them made a move to get up and leave. 

He didn’t really know why. All he knew was that he had finished his business in this town, and that he would move on by the morning. 

Until then, though, he supposed that there wasn’t much of a harm in having a drink.... especially since he wasn’t paying for it.

The ale was refreshing, after all, and the company was... a change. Maybe not  _ exceptional _ , but it was a change, nonetheless.

The bartender brought over platters of assorted appetizers, and they all shared them and ate them with enthusiasm. Therion took perhaps a bit more than his fair share, but nobody seemed to mind. Had he asked, they might have all collectively agreed that he needed it most, thin as he was.

While they ate, Alfyn broke into a sudden smile, as if he’d just thought of something, and he set his tankard down. 

“Barkeep wavin’ the bottle around just reminded me of somethin’,” Alfyn said, words just a touch slurred. “From back when me’n Zeph were kids,” 

“Oh? What might that be?” wondered Ophilia, smiling pleasantly, and his eyes twinkled with fondness. 

“Well, so me’n Zeph used to go out and play along the river when the weather was nice, and we’d sometimes go down to ‘round where the fishermen would go to catch their plounder. So, one day, when we were prob’ly ‘bout seven years old, we happened to be down there playin’ in the shallows, an’ Zeph found a glass bottle sittin’ on the bank. Guess it was from a fisherman who was drinkin’ while he was waitin’.” 

“T’would maken the most sense,” said H’aanit, nodding. “The art of the hunt requireth patience, regardless of the prey.”

“I thought so, anyways. But anyways, we were playin’ around with it... like kids do, y’know? An’, at one point, when we got bored of it, Zeph passed it to me an’ said, ‘Hey, Alf, can ya get rid of this, please?’.”

“I shall hazard a guess and suppose that you did not interpret that as taking it back into town and disposing of it properly...?” wondered Cyrus, and Alfyn laughed.

“Nope! For whatever _ stupid fuckin’ reason _ , my brain decided that ‘get rid of it’ meant ‘throw it as hard as you can into the ground’... so I did.”

“No! You didn’t!” exclaimed Ophilia, giggling from shock, and Alfyn started laughing uproariously. 

“Oh, I did! That bottle fuckin’  _ exploded _ . I think it hit a rock or somethin, and it just— it  _ vaporized _ . It was  _ gone. _ An’ it’s funny, because as soon as I heard it hit the ground, I realized just how fuckin’ stupid that really was. An’ Zeph was just starin’ at me with these huge eyes, round as saucers, and he was like, ‘ _ Alf! _ I meant  _ in the garbage!!! _ ’. And I was like... ‘ _ Oooohhh....’ _ .” 

Several people started laughing. Alfyn joined in, too, even as everyone else raucously scolded him for being so reckless, so impulsive. 

Therion... just watched, wondering why he’d have chosen a story where it simply made him look stupid, in the end. Surely there were other funny stories he could have recalled, ones that  _ didn’t _ paint this kind of picture of him. 

And yet, nobody seemed to think anything less of him for it. They all rolled their eyes, laughed, saying that kids always do stupid things like that without thinking, and Therion didn’t know what to say. They did, sure. He’s witnessed his fair share of thoughtless acts done by kids, and probably did his own, too.

But he was  _ told _ that what he did was stupid. He was  _ told _ to fix what he’d done. He  _ told _ him to _ never _ do it again, never let him  _ see _ him do it again, or he’d be sorry,  _ more _ than sorry, he’d  _ really _ get something to fucking cry about if he ever— 

A hand on his back startled him enough to make him gasp, leaning away from the touch. 

The chatter quieted, and he turned to find Alfyn lowering his hand, an apology in his eyes. Therion blinked at him for a moment, anxious, then went back to his ale.  _ Don’t ask what’s wrong. Just ignore me and keep talking. _

_ Please. _

Alfyn, mercifully, didn’t press the matter. If he kept a closer eye on Therion than usual, well, he didn’t point it out, and Alfyn didn’t say he was. Therion just disguised his thoughts by drinking a bit more, taking longer swallows to distract himself. He didn’t need to know about  _ him _ . None of them did. 

What would they think, if they knew just what kind of a person he was? 

What would they think of  _ him _ for being associated with someone like that?

Truth be told, he didn’t really want to know. 

He shouldn’t have cared, but he still couldn’t find it within himself to  _ want _ to find out. 

So, instead, he drank. He drank to drown out the thoughts, the noise from the rest of the tavern. His nerves were just frayed from the heist. That’s all it was. He was just tense, and tired, and the fucking fetch missions had irritated him beyond belief, and now he had to socialize, and he still wasn’t even  _ close _ to done this whole shitshow... and  _ now  _ he had to think about getting back to Bolderfall through the mountains and the desert...

_ Fuck, this is going to suck. _

It would undoubtedly suck. While he had never been to the Sunlands, he had heard enough tales of mirages, sandstorms, and sunburns to satisfy whatever curiosity he had. But, it was either that, or turn right back around and head the other way, and he wasn’t fully sold on that, either.

So, he decided right then and there that he wouldn’t think about it right then, actually, and that he would just do what he was best at— pretending that everything in his life was alright, and leaving it for tomorrow’s Therion to worry about. The ale was cold and his head felt heavy. The other travelers eased back into conversation, and the air seemed to return to normal.

The topic of payment came up, and Therion listened to their discussion with the mildest of interest. Of course, he was already pretty aware of roughly how much money each of them had in their purses at any given moment, so he didn’t really find the topic overly interesting. 

“As of the moment, if Ophilia, myself, and perhaps Therion could contribute to tonight’s meal, we ought to be set,” declared Cyrus, and Therion shrugged. Ophilia and the windbag professor could contribute as much as they wanted. Whether  _ he _ did or not, though, remained to be seen.

“Aw, thanks, guys,” Alfyn said, scratching awkwardly at the back of his head. “Sorry I never seem ta be able to pay for anythin’... I’ll make it up to all’ve you somehow.”

“Please do not take this as an offense, but do you truly... have nothing to your name, Alfyn?” wondered Ophilia, a bit timidly, and he chuckled apologetically. 

“Hah, not really,” he admitted, unlatching his bag to pull his purse out. “Just lint n’ a couple a flies, probably. Now where did I leave it...?” 

And just then, as Alfyn’s brows pinched from confusion, Therion remembered. The purse wouldn’t be empty at all. It would be...

The rush came back to him then, the surge of adrenaline from his random act of kindness, and he felt anxious, for whatever reason. His hands shook. His heart beat faster.

In a way, this was just like being caught.

“Huh...?” Alfyn murmured, lifting it and hefting it in his palm, and Therion set his mug down perhaps a touch too hard, stood up just a tad too fast. Everyone glanced up at him, puzzled.

Why did he stand up, again?

“Therion?” Alfyn asked, and he accidentally met his gaze, catching the confused sort of wonder in his eyes. 

_ Don't. Don't look at him. Play it cool. _

“I'm tired. I'm going to bed,” he said, giving a shrug, and Alfyn tipped his head.

“H-huh?” he stammered, but Therion shook his head. _ Don't bring it up in front of everyone. _

He wasn't sure just how convincing his little turn was, his ducking into his scarf, but it didn't matter. He was too tipsy to think especially hard about it then. 

_ That, and too cowardly, but what else is new? _

In his pursuit of trying to forget, he drank too much. His steps were awkward, a clumsy, shambling walk back to the inn, and he reached out to steady himself against the buildings. 

It's funny, he thought. This particular feeling, tottering through the darkened streets towards an unfamiliar room, brought back a lot of memories. It had been six years, sure, but it still felt as if it were only yesterday sometimes, as if he'd look beside him and see—

Green filled his peripheral vision, and he jumped, whipping around to confront him, but only found soft brown eyes, a concerned stare.  _ Alfyn. _

“Shit, I'm sorry...” Alfyn apologized, and Therion realized that that instant of terror on his face must have been visible.  _ Fuck. _ “Did I scare ya there?” 

“You don’t scare me,” Therion muttered, but the two of them knew full well that he hadn’t really answered his question. 

**_Alfyn_ ** _ doesn’t scare me. But that’s not what I was thinking of when I saw that colour. _

“Well!” Alfyn laughed, but it sounded a bit awkward, stilted, and Therion knew that he felt that something was off about his reaction. “Glad I don’t scare ya. Y’know, ‘cause it’s not somethin’ I would ever wanna do.” 

_ You could scare me, though, if you really tried.  _

_ You’re big. Strong. Good with an axe. You probably know all about the human body, all about every little weakness and soft spot a person would harbor. You know poisons, and can concoct things that can be used to harm instead of heal. _

_ You could snap my neck like a twig, Alfyn. You could break every single one of my fingers like they were pine needles, or cut my eyes from their sockets without damaging anything else, if you felt like it. You have no idea just how frightening you could be, if you wanted to be. _

_ If you weren’t so stupidly friendly all the fucking time...  _

_... I might actually be terrified of you. _

But, he  _ was _ stupidly friendly. So, even though it was against his nature, it was hard to fear him too much, for the most part. Sure, it might have been the smarter thing to do.

It really was hard to, though.

“... Hmph,” Therion snorted, turning away once more. He didn’t really know what else to reply to that, to his concern at his being scared, and he resumed his stumbling walk back to the inn. 

“Headin’ in for the night?” asked Alfyn, and Therion snorted.  _ Where else would I be going....? _

“Nah. Going out for a stroll. Y’know, to see the sights. Dark city sights.”

“Hey, now,” Alfyn soothed, moving to fall in step beside him. “No need to get snippy. I was just askin’ ‘cause I was headin’ back, too.” 

“... Had too much to drink?” 

Alfyn laughed at that, bright and hearty, and it seemed a lot louder than usual in the empty city streets. “Hah! No way! You wouldn’t  _ believe _ how much drink I can put away if needed. I’m barely even tipsy, truth be told.” 

Indeed, he did seem to be walking much more steadily than Therion was. His speech seemed looser than usual, somehow even more casual than normal, but that was about it. Considering how there were no less than four or five mugs of ale downed by him before they left, Therion was astounded that he  _ wasn’t _ drunker.

“... Must be expensive to drink like that,” Therion noted, without even thinking, and he mentally cursed upon remembering that— 

“Weeell,” Alfyn ventured, and Therion contemplated sprinting back to the inn right then and there, grabbing his things and fleeing. “You’re definitely not wrong there, heh. The more ya drink, the more ya pay, and if you’ve got a high tolerance to begin with...” 

He trailed off there, as if waiting for Therion to say something, but he didn’t. So, Alfyn stopped. 

It... was awkward. The two of them continued their walk back to the inn in a vaguely uncomfortable silence. Alfyn seemed to be thinking about something, watching him with a curious expression on his face, and Therion was bracing himself for the inevitable question, the wondering just  _ where _ all of those extra leaves came from all of a sudden, who would do such a thing or  _ why _ , or— 

“Hey,” Alfyn said, and Therion flinched.  _ There it is. _ “You know, the strangest thing’s happened to me recently.” 

_ Is he... really going to bring it up like this? _ Therion thought, sighing. “Really now.” 

“Yeah. See, it’s funny. When I left Clearbrook, I had ‘bout three hundred leaves in there. Nothin’ much, since we’ve... y’know, kind’ve always been poor. An’ I used some of it along the way, stockin’ up on supplies and buyin’ an inn room here an’ there, where I could. Not that I could really help as much as everyone else, considerin’ my... y’know,  _ financial state _ .” 

_ Considering how you never  _ **_charge_ ** _ anyone.  _ “... Mhm.” 

“So, when we were all at that table back there, talkin’ ‘bout how much we’ve all got stashed away n’ all, an’ here I was, assumin’ that I’d have nothin’ more than the couple of coppers hidin’ in my purse like I did before, an’ what do I find but a purse heavy enough to knock out a horse with?”

He didn’t sound angry, or confrontational, but Therion still bristled instinctively. 

“.... I don’t see why you’re complaining,” he mumbled, and Alfyn’s brow wrinkled from confusion. 

“Who said I was complainin’?” he asked, tilting his head. “This is kinda the opposite, actually. I wanted to thank ya.” 

Therion blinked, then snorted derisively. 

“For what?” 

And though he wasn’t looking at Alfyn, he could still hear the warmth in his voice, the gentle friendliness he always used with him, and it made his throat feel strange, somehow. 

“Well, whaddaya think? For givin’ me that gift.” 

“Who says it was me?” Therion countered, and Alfyn chuckled. 

“Mm, I dunno. Mainly ‘cause it’s kinda hard to envision any of the others riflin’ through my bag behind my back and givin’ me money they don’t even have.” 

“... Maybe they’ve taken up new hobbies,” Therion shrugged. “Seems more in character for Ophilia to do this, don’t you think?”

Alfyn’s chuckling grew a bit less restrained. “Oh! Yeah, sure, I can definitely see honest, generous Ophilia openin’ my satchel, takin’ my purse without askin’, and givin’ me more money than I’ve ever seen in my life just for fun.” 

“Cyrus then,” Therion said, and Alfyn scoffed, though the sound was playful. 

“Oh, he’s more likely to, sure. Only one problem, though, aside from the fact that he doesn’t have anywhere near that much on hand.” 

“.... What’s that?” 

The inn came into view, and Alfyn immediately went to open the door for Therion. He mumbled out something that sounded vaguely like a ‘thanks’. 

“Cyrus is a very....  _ very  _ honest person,” Alfyn said, and Therion sighed. That was true. “I asked him, just to check, n’ he said that it wasn’t him.”

“And you don’t suspect he’s lying,” Therion said, unlocking the door to their room. 

“Nah. Like I said, he’s pretty honest. Besides, there’s someone else in this group that seems a bit more likely to be sneakin’ around in other people’s bags.” 

“That so...” Therion said, flatly, locking the door behind them. Alfyn never seemed to bother, and it infuriated him to no end. 

“Yeah, surprisingly. Fact, would ya believe me if I said he was standin’ here, right in front of me?” 

Therion blinked, and scoffed. 

“... What are you trying to achieve here?” he muttered, giving him a suspicious stare, and Alfyn moved past him to sit on his bed and take his boots off. 

“I’m thankin’ you, like I said before. Y’know,  _ before _ you decided to try an’ convince me that you don’t have anythin’ to do with this,” he added, winking. 

“... Well, you don’t need to thank me for anything,” replied Therion, stoutly. “I don’t even know... why I bothered.” 

The last line was breathed out, halfway between a mutter and a sigh, and Alfyn wondered if Therion had even intended to say it at all. 

But, he did say it. So, Alfyn smiled and leaned back against the headboard, tipping his gaze up to the ceiling. 

“Well... doesn’t really matter all that much to me what your intentions were here,” Alfyn said, smiling at the planks above. “All I know is that you decided to pay me back, even though you don’t have to.”

“... Maybe I was just pissed off that you’re too stupid to  _ ask  _ for payment,” Therion muttered, and Alfyn laughed loudly at that, for whatever reason. 

“Oh! Trust me, you  _ really  _ ain’t the first person to tell me that,” Alfyn admitted, but his tone was good-natured, light. “But even if that _were_ the only reason for it, I’m still grateful. Far as I know, nobody  _ told _ you to do this. So... that means a lot to me, y’know?” 

Nobody had told him to, Therion knew. Nobody had suggested it, or dropped a hint about it, or even went anywhere near telling him to repay him. 

He just did it, for no reason aside from easing his conscience.

“D’you even know how much you gave me?” Alfyn asked, and Therion scoffed. 

“... Don’t tell me. I don’t want to regret it.” 

Alfyn didn’t laugh at that, but his smile seemed to soften, for some reason, and Therion didn’t understand it. Why was it that, whenever he tried to be unpleasant, it only seemed to charm him more? 

“Ah, well... let’s just say it’s ‘bout as much as some people’s life savings. Probably ‘round as much as my Ma’s ever had in her life.” 

Therion huffed. Okay, maybe he _didn’t_ need to give him  _ quite _ that much. 

“Y’know,” Alfyn continued, tilting his head a touch. “you’re always welcome to take some back, if you think you’ve overpaid. I’m not gonna take offense to that. Money’s pretty tight these days, for the most’ve us.” 

Therion gave him a strange look. “You... wouldn’t honestly get upset with someone taking back what they’ve given you?” 

Alfyn shrugged. “In this case, no. I mean, hey, we’re travelin’ partners, right? What’s mine is yours, for the most part.”

“What’s.... huh?” Therion repeated, stupidly, more than a little caught off-guard at this gesture. 

“I mean, within reason, of course. My lucky coin’s mine, obviously, and like... I dunno, my letters and notebooks. Oh, and my clothes wouldn’t fit ya, but if they did, you’d be welcome to ‘em, too, if ya really wanted,” Alfyn rambled, unaware of Therion's shock. “You can use whatever medicines you want, though you’d have to ask me what they are before you accidentally end up poisonin’ yourself again. But that blue salve, you can use as much a’ that as ya want. Don’t even have to ask for it, if ya need it.” 

One would think that offering access to all of his belongings would be a stupid thing to do with a thief, and yet, here he was. Alfyn proclaimed all of this with a gentle smile, as if he were offering the food in his pantry to a visiting friend, and Therion had no idea how to reply. 

What was there to  _ say _ to someone this kind, this openly generous? 

_ What’s there to say to someone as naive as this? _

Naive or not, Therion couldn’t find it in himself to take advantage of his offer. Some cynical, cruel part of him was tempted to just take everything inside and run off with it, to sell it all and dump the rest to teach him a lesson, and yet...

“... Alright,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper, and Alfyn’s smile grew. 

“You’re kinda like a friend of mine, y’know,” he said, warmly. “I love takin’ care of my friends.... even if they don’t always appreciate it,” he added, laughing, and Therion wondered why someone as charitable as him could ever talk to a thief like _this_.

Was it simply because he was generous, because it was in his nature to offer his help? He was an apothecary, after all. Helping was his job, in his lifeblood. 

But, he wasn’t so sure that that was the only reason.

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. All Therion knew was that he was tired as shit from the day, and he started getting ready for bed. He could think more about this later.

The two of them changed into bedclothes and did whatever else they needed to do before going to sleep (in Alfyn’s case, untying his ridiculous little ponytail and combing it all out, and in Therion’s case, carefully stashing his dagger where he could reach it in the night). 

“Hey,” Alfyn said, around his toothbrush. “Wha’re ya p’annin’ on doin’ ‘omorrow?” 

Therion rolled his eyes at his garbled words.  _ Childish buffoon. _ “Tomorrow? Haven’t decided. Might look around Noblecourt more, might head off. Don’t know.” 

From his bed, he could see Alfyn’s reflection in the mirror. His brows furrowed at his words, and Therion knew that he was trying to think of something to say in response to that. 

He spat the toothpaste out and rinsed his mouth with water. The lamplight hit the sharpness of his jaw, his nose, made him look tired, and Therion wondered how much of it was from dealing with him. 

Surely... Alfyn found him exhausting to deal with sometimes, right? 

Alfyn carried the lamp back out and placed it on the sidetable between them. It flickered, throwing hard shadows around the room.

“I was thinkin’ that the rest of us were gonna hang around here for another day before headin’ off to Goldshore,” Alfyn said, sitting on the edge of his bed. “I’ve heard it's real nice there. It’s got the ocean an’ all.”

_ Yes, it sure is part of the Coastlands, _ thought Therion, rolling his eyes once more. 

“An’... I know you were wantin’ to head off as soon as you possibly could, but I’ve heard Goldshore’s a great place to visit this time a year. Supposed to have really good mead, too.”

And Therion knew what he was trying to do, and he should have shot him down immediately, should have told him to shut up, to stop talking about it, to leave him alone, that he was splitting paths with them whether he liked it or not, and that was final. 

But he didn't. He just waited, and Alfyn took that as an opportunity to ask one final question. 

“You said before that you really only knew the Riverlands and Bolderfall. So... haven’t you ever  _ wanted  _ to see the ocean?” 

This felt like a repeat of yesterday, Therion thought, a sort of echo of before, and it only made him feel worse when he hesitated, considered Alfyn’s proposition for longer than a second or two. He hadn’t seen the ocean before, that was true. He hadn’t tried the foods there, hadn’t seen what kinds of goods people carried around, hadn’t smelled the salt of the sea. 

He could, though. If he went with them for an extra couple of days, he could. 

Didn’t he...  _ want _ to see the ocean, at some point as a kid?

“... Maybe,” he muttered, before he changed his mind. “Don’t... get your hopes up, though.”

Alfyn’s face cleared almost instantly, whatever clouds drifting over his eyes scattering in the sun he created. He had already gotten his hopes up.

“Hey, I’ll take a ‘maybe’. It’s a whole lot better than a ‘no’, in this case.”

_ Maybe, but it’s not a ‘yes’, though. _

Therion said nothing. Alfyn smiled, and killed the lamp.

“G’night, Therion,” he said, softly, and Therion let out a small breath.

“...... Night.”

 

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— 

 

_ It was warm, it was cozy.  _

_ He was at home, on his bed. Naked, but if he were at home, then it didn’t really matter whether or not he was wearing clothes. _

_ Or, maybe it was wasn’t his house after all. It looked like his own place, but he was sure that the room wasn’t usually shaped like that. But, no, it was definitely his house. This looked like his bed, anyways.  _

_ He wasn't alone, though. _

_ “Hey,” a voice said, and Alfyn looked down, looked at the shock of white hair framed between his thighs. “What’re you thinking about, medicine man?”  _

_ “Ah, y-y’know,” he started, voice faltering when Therion opened his mouth and resumed his task, lazy and slow. “Stuff. Nothin’...  mm, nothin’ too excitin’.”  _

_ Boy, it was hard to talk when he was doing that. Alfyn made a soft sound and tipped his head back, letting his skull hit the wall.  _

_ “You could think about this,” Therion said, temporarily replacing his mouth with his hand to talk, and Alfyn shivered. “About what I’m doing to you.” _

_ “Mm... y-yeah, I’m thinkin’ about it, alright....” he replied, voice strained, and Therion gave a small laugh. Had he ever heard him laugh before?  _

_ “Good... You’d better be,” he nearly purred, twisting his hand just right, and Alfyn bit back a whimper.  _ **_Gods_ ** _ , but he was good at this.  _

_ His tongue wrapped around him once more. Alfyn reached down to tangle his hands into his hair, gently guiding him along. Therion made a small noise and allowed himself to be moved, taking more of him in.  _

_ It felt amazing, Alfyn thought, nudging his hips in time with his motions. Therion looked beautiful, lips pink and parted, hair held back in his hands, eyes gazing up at him with an expression that felt so filthy that Alfyn moaned, blushing under his stare. Therion was incredible. Incredible, stunning, and so,  _ **_so_ ** _ good at what he did. _

_ He  _ **_really_ ** _ liked Therion. _

_ “Hey,” Alfyn said, moving to cup his cheek, lightly hooking his fingers into the crook of his jaw. “C-c’mere for a sec... I wanna kiss you when I— .”  _

_ He didn’t need to complete his thought. Therion was on him in an instant, sliding his hand into his hair, kissing him so deeply and so dizzyingly that Alfyn forgot how to think. Therion’s other hand moved faster, sliding in a quick, steady rhythm, and Alfyn pulled away, eyes squeezing shut, mouth opening to breathe out his name as he—  _

Alfyn awoke in a start, heart pounding in his chest.

_ Holy shit. _

He lay perfectly still, silent, trying to get his bearings. Where was he again? What was happening?

Eventually, he started to remember. He was in Noblecourt, in an inn. He went to bed after going to the tavern with everyone else. Therion was still there, and— 

His face burned.  _ Therion. _

In the darkness, he could just barely make out the huddled form of the thief in his own bed, fast asleep. Therefore, he was hopefully completely unaware of just  _ what _ , exactly, he had been dreaming about right then.

Hopefully.

Alfyn let out a long breath, reaching up to rub his palms over his face.  _ Gods. _ What the hells would he  _ do _ if Therion found out? How could he possibly smooth everything over if he knew that he was dreaming of something like  _ that _ ? 

_ Oh, you know, sorry for waking you up. I was just dreaming about you blowing me. No big deal, right? _

He almost wanted to laugh. It wasn’t the first time he’s had a dream like that. However, this was the first one he’s had about someone who wasn’t a close friend of his. 

This one was also the hottest one he’s ever had, if the ache between his legs was any indicator. 

_ Don’t even think about it, Alf...  _ he thought, shifting uncomfortably.  _ Don’t be fucking weird. _

He tried to think of several things to make it go away, like festering wounds and rotting garbage and that one time he got so drunk that he threw up all over Zeph, and it did. But, the memory of the dream was intact, and he sighed. Of course  _ that _ wouldn’t leave him anytime soon. 

He glanced again towards Therion, paranoid, but he remained still. Alfyn could tell well enough when people were pretending to sleep, so he didn’t doubt that Therion really was asleep. 

_ And thank the gods for that.... _

The gods were kind enough to let Therion stay asleep throughout the duration of his...  _ dream _ , but they weren’t quite lenient enough to him to allow him to get back to sleep right away. Alfyn laid there for a long time, blinking at the ceiling, the blanket, the lump of Therion’s body in the adjacent bed, and he sighed. He wasn’t going to get back to sleep anytime soon, was he...? 

He tried, though. He closed his eyes and laid still and, inevitably, cycled back to the remnants of the dream. Therion’s hair tickling against his thighs, his hands tracing along his legs and stomach, his lips pressing into his as he— 

_ Oookay,  _ Alfyn thought, sitting up.  _ Something  _ was bound to happen here, if he laid around and thought about it long enough, and while Therion didn’t appear to be waking up anytime soon, he didn’t even want to  _ begin _ to imagine the humiliation of having to explain just  _ why, _ exactly, he was lying in bed with his dick in his hand.

So, he got up as quietly as he could. He had to distract himself  _ somehow _ , and he stood there for a moment, thinking. It was drizzling rain, so he didn't much want to go outside, and he couldn't do anything within the room that could potentially wake Therion. As far as he could tell, sleep was a difficult enough thing for him.

After some time, he decided that the only way to get the thoughts out of his head was to lay them out, make some sense of them that way. Writing things down always helped him, whether it was through the years of taking notes with Zeph, or simply trying to work his way through a new concept. Therefore, this would be no different, he supposed. 

He stole another look towards Therion as he dug some matches out from his bag. Still asleep, even as he struck one to light a candle. 

_ And you’d better not wake up while I’m writing this out.... _ Alfyn thought, pulling a notebook and pen out. Having him creep up behind him and read the contents of this letter would be nearly as mortifying as him listening in on his dream...

Or catching him masturbating, but he wasn't going to be doing  _that_ anytime soon.

Now that he thought about it, it was high time he wrote a letter to Zeph, wasn’t it? The last one he had sent was from while they were in S’warkii, and quite a few things had happened since then. Zeph would love to hear about all of the new adventures (and misadventures) that he’s stumbled his way through.

With that in mind, he started to gather his thoughts, and uncapped his pen.

 

_ Dear Zeph, _

_ We made it to Noblecourt, and things have been really good! We ended up having to take a detour to Flamesgrace, and we somehow convinced a cleric girl named Ophilia to come along with us, so we have five people in our party, including me. It’s pretty lively! I wish you were here with us, though. I think you’d like them! Especially Ophilia. She sorta reminds me of you, somehow. _

_ Anyways, we had to go to Flamesgrace because Therion got injured by a gryphon. He was blinded by one of those huge ant things I told you about... did I tell you about those?? Anyways, he got carried off by the gryphon and fell after H’aanit shot it. I don’t know exactly how high he was when he was dropped, but he ended up surviving with several broken ribs, fractures of the left radius and ulna, and a whole lotta contusions and scrapes. I’m honestly amazed that we managed to find him. _

 

He tapped the pen against his cheek, thinking. He had briefly explained who Therion was in his previous letter, mentioning that he had been gravely poisoned with falselily and was forced to travel alongside him for a bit, but hadn’t said much else about him. Now, though, he decided to write out much more about him, describing him to his oldest friend.

 

_ I’m happy we did, though. He’s the most interesting person I’ve ever met.  _

_ You haven’t seen him before, so let me describe him for you. He’s _

 

What  _ was _ he? Alfyn lightly chewed on the cap of the pen, wondering how honest he should be. How much should he tell him?

... Ah, what did it matter? Zeph could read everything he wrote and everything he left out. He had might as well be open about it.

 

_ He’s probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.  _

_ Everything about him is just perfect, Zeph. He’s real small, like the top of his head would only reach my collarbones, and he’s got eyes the colour of a cold river on a clear day, all green and blue and full of ice. His skin is tan and his hair is short and messy and covers one of his eyes, and it’s the exact same colour as snow, or stars, or galanthus blossoms, and it looks so soft, Zeph. It sounds kinda crazy but I really want to touch it, or even just the rest of him, because he’s so skittish and doesn’t seem to know how to accept any kind of physical contact... or even just talking with him most of the time. He knows how to fight. He’s covered in scars, and not all of them look like they’re from accidents or monsters.  _

_ I don’t know a lot about him. He’s had a bad past. I can tell that much, even though he won’t tell me, and I don’t want to make him. But, I want to help him somehow. He doesn’t have to stay with us anymore, and it’s been making me really sad. I don’t want to force him to stay, of course, since if he really wants to stick around, then he just will, without us making him, but the thought of him leaving makes my heart hurt something awful, and I don’t know what to do. There’s been one night already in Flamesgrace where he was out for a long time and I went to bed not knowing if he was okay, and it scared me. _

_ I worry about him a lot, Zeph, even though I'm not too sure that he cares about us all that much. _

_... Oops. I didn’t really mean to write that much about him, but it just all kind of came out at once. Sorry about that. _

_ It’s funny, because you’re not here, but I think I know exactly what you’d say to me. “You’re in deep, aren’t you?” or something like that. And... I guess you’re right, huh? _

_ Hope you and Nina are doing okay. How’s Mr. Fuller’s recovery coming? He should be about better by now, huh?  _

_ Love you guys. Send your next letter to Goldshore, okay? I’ll write to you then. _

_ -Alf _

 

With that, he capped the pen and put it away, shoving a hand through his hair.  _ There it is... _ he thought, looking it over. All of his thoughts, laid bare on the table before him. 

Well, all of the thoughts save for that dream, but he wasn't really wanting to be  _ that  _ descriptive... Not that Zeph would judge him, of course, but he still didn't want to be able to lean his head out the window and hear him laughing across the sea.

Once the ink dried, he pulled the paper from the book and folded it into an envelope. That would get sent off in the morning, when they passed by the post office. It would get carted over to Clearbrook, Mrs. Porter would receive it at their little riverside station, and she would slip it into the mail slot at Zeph’s house. He would read it, he would laugh, he would shake his head at Alfyn’s tendency to fall for every cute traveler and passing merchant, and he’d write a reply back, softly chastising him in the way that only an old friend would. 

Alfyn would read it, and miss them, but he would carry on to Goldshore regardless.

Hopefully everything would go smoothly. 

And, as he stashed the paper and went to blow out the candle, he paused for a moment, looking towards the other bed. Therion hadn’t moved. He remained asleep, motionless, completely and fully unaware of what Alfyn had been so bold to write about him, and Alfyn took a moment to hope. 

He hoped that Therion would wake up without a hangover. 

He hoped that Therion wouldn't find out what he had dreamed about. 

And, perhaps most importantly, he hoped that Therion would stick around just a little bit longer. 

He hoped... and blew out the candle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew... glad that's all out of the way.  
> Thank you guys so so so much for being patient with me... the holidays and work both kinda tag-teamed me and left me without any time to do anything, so this took a lot longer than anticipated. But, hopefully I'll be able to get back into the swing of things, now that we've come into the new year.  
> Thanks again for reading, and I love all of you and hope you guys have a wonderful new year!!


	12. Keepsake (Coward)

On the day that they were set to go to Goldshore, Therion considered fleeing exactly six times. 

The first time, when he was awoken by Alfyn dropping a pot of ink and cursing. 

The second time, when he then had to crawl out of bed and help pick up shards of glass and mop up ink before it soaked into the floors and netted them a damages fine. 

The third time, when Alfyn apologized so profusely and sincerely for waking him up that his chest clenched, and that was decidedly too complex a feeling to endure so early in the godsdamned morning. 

Or at any other time of the day, really, but right then was especially irritating. 

He didn’t think much of running away for some time after that. Everyone met up at the tavern for breakfast, and Alfyn happily paid for everyone with the ( _ excessive, I definitely gave him far too much _ ) contents of his purse. This marked the fourth time that Therion considered fleeing somehow. Alfyn cast a grateful look towards him, and he averted his gaze, as if pretending that nothing had happened. Everything felt too bright, too centered on him, and he had a headache. 

The headache was probably from drinking too much, as he’s been wont to do recently, but he didn’t want to bring it up. Regardless of what Alfyn had said to him, he wasn’t supposed to be relying on him. 

_ Even though he probably wants me to, for some reason. _

So, he didn’t mention it.

With breakfast finished, their things were gathered, and they set off towards one of the exit points in the gates. Only thing was, Therion was sure that they were headed the wrong way. 

“... Where are we going?” he asked, peering around Cyrus to look at the map. Sure enough, the path to the Coastlands was definitely on the opposite side of town. 

“Ah, Therion, I’m glad that you asked!” enthused Cyrus, pointing at the exit they were currently standing at. On the map, he could see a road leading down towards the sea, where some docks awaited. “Yesterday, before you came to visit with us, Alfyn had managed to befriend some sailors at the tavern over some drinks.”

_ Of course he did... _ thought Therion, stifling a sigh. The guy could make friends with a wild dog, if he felt like it.

“While conversing with them, Alfyn mentioned to them that he was planning on setting his sights on Goldshore, and one of the sailors graciously offered to allow us aboard in exchange for some basic medicines, which Alfyn gladly agreed to provide.” 

_ And of course he did... _ Therion supposed that it was good to be enthusiastic about one’s job, but Alfyn seemed to take that to another level entirely, somehow.

“Yeah, she was lookin’ for the usual,” Alfyn chimed in, giving an affable smile. “Painkillers, antiseptics, scurvy tonics... nothin’ too complicated. I’m givin’ her a pot of blue salve, too, as a thanks for lettin’ all of us aboard, instead of just me.” 

_ Aaand of course you are. _ Therion rolled his eyes, sighing. It shouldn’t surprise him, by this point, but he still found himself asking why he’d bother to do these extra little things, even when aware he wasn’t going to  _ get  _ anything from it in return. 

... Whatever. Therion knew that this would only end up biting him in the ass one day, so he just let him. 

“So, instead a hikin’ our asses ‘round the mountains and back, we’re gonna be takin’ a boat there, instead!” Alfyn continued, and Therion’s eyebrows rose.  _ A boat, huh _ ? 

This marked the fifth time he thought of fleeing.

Overall, he was a bit uncertain as to what to think of this change of plans. While he wasn’t excited about having to thread his way through the Highlands, he had never actually  _ been  _ on a boat before, so he wasn't sure whether to be worried or not. Reactions were mixed. Cyrus and Alfyn were enthusiastic about this idea. Ophilia seemed neutral, as if she didn’t really care whether they sailed or walked. H'aanit looked about as thrilled as he was, which reassured him somewhat. Surely she had never needed to cross any large bodies of water, being from the Woodlands. Did she even know how to swim?

“What sayest thou, Linde?” she asked, dryly, and Linde gave a tired huff. She, too, didn’t seem terribly excited.

With that, the map was rolled up, and they set off. The pace down the winding road to the docks was easygoing, a group of travelers all talking and tromping their way down the rutted path (all of them save for Therion, really, but what else was new?), and as they descended, he eventually started to notice that the air was changing. It smelled a bit different— slightly coppery, almost tangy, and he wondered if that was the smell of the sea. 

They came around a corner of the slope, and the trees parted. Therion saw the horizon smooth out into a deep blue expanse, and he realized that he was looking at the ocean for the first time in his life.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ophilia, giggling from delight. “Goodness, is it ever beautiful!” 

“Ain’t it just?” agreed Alfyn, practically skipping to the front of the group. “It’s been a while since I’ve last been to the beach. Too bad we can’t really stay for a while longer, huh? I’d love to swim for a bit, if the weather stays nice like this...” 

“... We’re just going to another beach right after...” pointed out Therion, rolling his eyes.  _ Go swimming there, if you want to so bad. _

“Aw, yeah, I guess that’s true. Still, though. Swimmin’ in the ocean is completely different from the river.” 

Ophilia seemed interested in how, and Alfyn immediately launched into an enthusiastic tirade of the pros and cons of ocean swimming versus river swimming, and she listened through the whole damn thing, nodding and asking questions. Therion couldn’t comprehend how he was so full of energy. He was like one of those big fluffy dogs Therion had seen carousing through the streets on occasion, golden and scruffy and bursting with life. Like usual, there was a sprig of grass sticking out from his smile, and Ophilia laughed at the sight.

“My, it looks like a rather calm day out there,” observed Cyrus, squinting towards the water. “I should hope that that would make for a rather smooth sailing.” 

Therion didn’t reply outwardly, but he agreed. He really had no idea what to expect from this. The ocean had waves, he knew. Like how the lake outside Saintsbridge grew small waves under the wind, he knew enough about the world to know that oceans had larger, more consistent ones. He didn’t really know what they would feel like, though... especially while on a boat. Would it sway? Could one even feel the waves on a boat?

“Havest thou ever been aboard a boat, Therion?” wondered H’aanit, and he shook his head. 

“Nope.” 

She sighed softly, nodding. “Aye, I haven not, as well.” 

“... Nervous?” he asked, expecting this fearless, stoic huntress to decline his question, but she simply gave a very small laugh, almost embarrassed. 

“Aye, truth be told. I knoweth how to swim, but poorly. And though it is unlikely that we mayest fallen off the boat somehow...” 

For whatever reason, Therion felt somewhat reassured that big, strong H’aanit was also a bit worried about the sailing. 

“Aren thou also nervous, Therion?” she asked, and he scoffed too quickly for it to sound convincing. 

“Ah, so thou art indeed nervous.”

_ Am not. _ Therion scowled and turned his attention back towards his feet. It was just a boat ride. He’d be  _ fine _ . 

He’d be fine, but he still wasn’t excited. Therion figured that he was allowed to be a bit apprehensive, at least.

They descended the path, approaching the ocean, and the noise of the port floated up towards them. It wasn’t a large port, necessarily, but it had several docks with a handful of ships anchored between them. It wasn't incredibly busy, per se, but there was activity nonetheless, with workers and porters loading cargo on and off various ships. 

As they stepped onto the platform, a burly man approached Alfyn and greeted him. It seemed that he worked under the captain that he had befriended. 

“Payment ready?” asked the man, and Alfyn gave a cheery nod, passing a small sack of concoctions over. 

“Absolutely! I’ve thrown in a coupla bonus things as thanks, so please let the Captain know about ‘em, when you get the chance.” 

“Got it. Follow me, please.” 

Alfyn stepped aside to allow his companions to pass by first, with him taking up the rear, behind Therion. Therion suspected that that might have been intentional, to ensure that he not only got onto the boat in the first place, but to also keep sticky fingers out of the wares of his new friends. 

Well, he’d show him. The second that a barrel was left open, or leaves rattled around too noisily in a pocket......

Cyrus boarded first, just as gracefully and effortlessly as everything else that he did, and Ophilia followed behind. H’aanit went after that, along with a very reluctant Linde (which, to Therion’s amusement, the crew were pretty uncertain about, keeping a wide berth of her). That left just Therion himself, and Alfyn behind him.

And, as he stared balefully up at the gangplank, at Ophilia smiling at him from the deck with encouragement in her eyes, he considered ducking under everyone’s arms and fleeing for the sixth time. 

But, of course, he didn’t.

He hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed. He was still a bit suspicious about the whole thing, but what choice did he have? He could turn on his heel and leave right then and there, if he really wanted, but the vague pressure of Alfyn’s hand on his shoulder nudged him onto the gangplank. 

“C’mon, I’m right behind ya,” Alfyn coaxed, and Therion muttered something that sounded vaguely like  _ Hands off, medicine man... _ before boarding. He could feel the boat shifting from the waves, and he wasn’t certain if he liked that or not.

The ship was not massive (a caravel, according to Cyrus), with two masts and large square sails rolled over top of them. Several crew members were just finishing rigging them in place, and a couple of others were drawing some triangular sails into tight bundles. 

“The passage from here to this side of the Coastlands is very easy,” a woman explained to Cyrus. Therion presumed her to be the captain that Alfyn had befriended. “Therefore, we shan’t be needing the lateen sails. Square sails will get us there much faster.” 

Alfyn then came over and introduced the captain as Lyra Porter. She was a young merchant sailor, probably barely any older than Therion was, and she shook everyone’s hands with a confident grip. 

“Thank you very much for allowing us to board your ship,” said Ophilia, giving a respectful curtsey, and Lyra giggled. 

“My, there is hardly a need to thank me for this,” she replied, smiling. “The concoctions I’m receiving as payment are more than enough. These aren’t cheap to buy, after all.” 

Therion sent a sidelong glance at Alfyn, who gave a slight shrug. Of course he wasn’t bothered by it. 

“Besides,” Lyra continued. “It’s rather nice to be in the company of women once more. My crew are wonderful, but... they are all men.” 

A quick look around the rest of the deck confirmed that. H’aanit and Ophilia gave small, sympathetic noises. Therion had no idea what for.

“Oh, dear, I can imagine...” sighed Ophilia. “I do know that you are likely to be busy, but if you have a moment, might you wish to talk? Aside from my new friends here, it has been quite some time since I have had the honour of speaking with someone new... especially one as accomplished as you, Lyra.” 

The captain’s eyebrows shot up, and she laughed. The sound was sweet, flattered, and Therion’s eyes narrowed. Ophilia was too naive to knowingly flirt with her, he thought... 

But, whatever her intentions were (and regardless of how the captain interpreted it), they agreed to sit down for tea and biscuits when they had set sail and were on course. Both seemed delighted. 

H’aanit, too, was invited, but she had to respectfully decline, for the time being— Linde might end up seasick, and that would truly be a tragedy, were it to happen within a closed, contained room.

Seeing as to what Linde had eaten for breakfast that morning, Therion had to agree.

Now that they were all aboard, they stepped aside to allow the crew to untie the ropes connecting the ship to the dock, to work the sails, to raise the anchor. The crew chanted as they pushed, winching the chains up in a rhythmic step. Seagulls cried overhead, whining like old doors creaking, and the breeze whipped at their hair. Lyra called out some commands, and the sails were unfurled. They cracked as the wind caught onto them, pulling the ship out from the docks. 

The sensation of  _ movement _ beneath their feet was startling to most of the travelers, with only Cyrus seeming perfectly unbothered, and Therion was uncertain as to what he thought of it. Right then... it didn’t seem  _ too  _ bad. Weird, maybe, but nothing horrible.

Therion walked over towards the guardrail, watching the land recede beside them. Yeah. He could do this.

Maybe... maybe boats were okay.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— 

Boats, Therion soon decided, sucked  _ ass. _

His head lolled off of the side of the banister, jostled and bumped as they went. He hadn’t thrown up, thankfully, but he was starting to think that it might be less agonizing for him if he just got it over with right then and there. On the other side of the ship, H’aanit already had. Therefore, it probably wouldn’t be  _ too  _ embarrassing if he gave up and retched up his breakfast into the waves. 

But, it would still be unpleasant, so he held it down... for now.

Footsteps approached him, and he sighed, whispering over and over in his head for whoever it was to  _fuck off_ , but they didn't, to his dismay.

“Ah, look at you...” a soft voice said, and he knew it to be Alfyn’s. 

_ Look who finally clued in that I feel like shit... _ was what Therion tried to say, but it just came out as a pathetic “Hnnggh....”.

Alfyn made a small, sympathetic noise. Therion could hear him rummaging through his bag. 

“I already made somethin’ for H’aanit, and I figured that at least one other person might end up sick here,” he said, as he searched. “So lemme just... find it...”

_ Hurry the fuck up, because it might not be pretty if you don’t. _

“Here ya go,” he finally said, placing a vial into Therion’s hand, and he stared at it. He didn’t much feel like eating or drinking anything, with how his stomach was feeling, but he figured that Alfyn wouldn’t leave him be until he took it. 

“It’s an antiemetic,” Alfyn explained, as if that word meant anything to Therion. “It’s got ginger root and sailor’s wort in it. It’ll take about ten minutes to kick in, but after that, you’ll be golden.” 

_ I’m still hung up on that one word, but I’ll hazard a guess and assume that it’ll make me feel less shitty. _

Therion peeled himself off of the railing and tipped the contents of the vial back. He winced at the burn of undiluted ginger, but it was sweet, for a change. 

“There ya go,” Alfyn praised, taking the vial from him. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Therion shook his head, pressing his forehead into the railing once more. This was a bad idea. A bad, bad idea. Why did he agree to this in the first place? Why didn't they just walk, like normal people?

“I know you probably don’t wanna get up,” Alfyn ventured, and Therion groaned. He didn’t, truth be told. “But, seasickness is a type of motion sickness. Lookin’ down at the waves ain’t gonna help you feel better.” 

Therion didn’t say anything, but he made a noise indicating that he heard him. 

“You can sit right back down once you’re there, but come to the back a the ship with me, okay?”

Whatever his intentions were, Therion had absolutely zero interest in getting up and walking somewhere while in this state. “Ugh, why?” 

Alfyn stifled a chuckle at his tone. “Well, because motion sickness is from mismatched information, okay? Your body is feelin’ the motion, but your eyes ain’t seein’ it. So c’mon. Let’s go to the back of the ship, okay?” 

What Alfyn had said made sense, and Therion figured that, somehow, getting to the back of the ship might actually make him feel better. Alfyn had said so, after all, so he figured that he might not want to be so quick to dismiss it. 

Besides, while he had said that he’d feel better in ten minutes, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could handle feeling like _this_ before just giving up and puking. 

He took in a deep breath and grabbed hard onto the railing, pushing himself up to stand on unsteady feet. The ground seemed to tip underneath him, lurching, making Therion stagger a couple of steps backwards. 

His back hit something, and he realized that he had collided with Alfyn when he heard the soft gasp in his lungs. 

“Whoa, careful, now,” Alfyn said, and his voice was  _ right there _ , just above his head, and Therion shuddered. “You’ve got vertigo, huh? Poor thing...” 

_ Don’t condescend me, asshole... _ Therion ground his teeth together, clenching his hands into fists, and stepped away from him. The walk was tipsy and arduous (made worse by the fact that he  _ knew _ that Alfyn was right there behind him, hands hovering just above his back in case he fell), but he managed to make it up the steps towards the back of the ship. The crew members took one look at his face and snickered, stepping aside. 

For a moment, he thought about throwing up into their boots, but he just kept on walking until he reached the back railing. Someone was already sitting down on the right-hand side, feet dangling out over the water, and Therion recognized her as H’aanit, with Linde laying at her side. He supposed that Alfyn had also managed to convince her to sit over here.

“Okay, we’re finally fucking here,” Therion groaned, slumping into the railing, and H’aanit glanced up. She didn’t look anywhere near as terrible as she did before, which gave him some hope as to the effectiveness of whatever Alfyn had just given him to drink.

“Oh, Therion,” she greeted, noticing his complexion, his shaky knees. “Please, sitten thyself down. Alfyn art correct. Sitting oneself liken this helpeth immensely with the seasickness.” 

Therion wasn’t sure how sitting down would help, but he was getting somewhat desperate, so he complied. He arranged himself like H’aanit, sitting on the deck with his hands locked around the vertical parts of the guardrail, feet over the water. 

“Even though we’re facin’ the wrong way, sittin’ like this gives us a clear view of the land,” Alfyn explained, sitting in between Therion and H’aanit. “And by doin’ that, the information in our brains matches up with the information in our eyes. Basically, we see the land moving that way—” There, he gestured away from himself. “— And we feel the boat moving this way,” he continued, bringing his hand towards himself once more. “So, the brain stops panickin’ about the mismatch, and you’ll feel less nauseous.”

“Thanks, Cyrus,” Therion muttered, pressing his forehead against the railings, and, to his surprise, both Alfyn and H’aanit laughed. 

“I know you weren’t meanin’ it as one, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” Alfyn quipped, winking, and Therion sighed.  _Can't you please, for once, get upset at something I say...?_

It took some time, but Alfyn’s medicine and the new viewpoint managed to soothe his roiling stomach, and Therion felt something close to normal. He wasn’t  _ great, _ per se, but he supposed that that wasn’t really anything new. 

H’aanit, too, seemed much better, and even struck up a conversation with Alfyn about swimming in the Woodlands. Linde, unfortunately, wasn’t improving, since Alfyn wasn’t exactly trained in veterinary medicine, so she continued to shift uncomfortably, letting out pathetic noises of displeasure every so often. H’aanit idly stroked her head, murmuring soft words of encouragement. 

And, to Therion's surprise, with the ocean winds shoving through his hair and the pleasant, idle chatter of the other travelers, the time started to pass by. An hour passed, then two, and Therion grew comfortable enough to lay out his stuff and settle in for a nap in the sun.

And, just before he fell asleep, he swore that he saw a trace of green on top of his shawl, and the scent of grass followed him into darkness.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The boat docked while Therion was napping, and he was awoken to Alfyn gently shaking him, quietly enthusing that they were there, and that he had to get up, which Therion didn't need to be told twice. While he might have normally been much ruder to him for having awoken him, he was so grateful that they had landed that he got up almost immediately, nearly vaulting off of the gangplank in the process of disembarking. Therion had never, in his twenty-two years of life, been so grateful to be on solid ground... with some exceptions.

But then wasn’t the time to think about  _ those times. _

Alfyn bade his new friend goodbye, thanked her profusely once again for letting them sail on her ship, and she giggled. 

“Alfyn, I ought to be thanking  _ you _ ,” she said, hefting the sack of pharmaceuticals. “These should last us for some time. Please do let me know if you ever need to board again... and if your friends might be joining you. I had a lovely time with Ophilia.” 

“Lyra!” Ophilia enthused, giggling. “I had a wonderful time meeting you, as well! Thank you so much for the tea... I’ll have to meet up with you again soon for some more.” 

The two women bade each other their goodbyes. Therion would have guessed, based on nothing more than how they spoke to each other, that they had been friends for years. 

How did she do that?

“Gotcha! I’ll be sure to track ya down if I’m in the area again,” said Alfyn, giving her one last wave. “See ya later, alright? Take care, Lyra.”

“You too, Alfyn! Take care out there!” 

With that, they hefted their belongings and set themselves on the path for Goldshore.

The trek, thankfully, didn’t take that long, all things considering. The path was relatively flat, only rising and falling on occasion to wind around small sections of forest and outcroppings of rock, and they came to the easternmost side in about an hour and a half. Goldshore itself soon followed, and as they came through the entrance, Therion was somewhat surprised at the size of the town. By what he could see, there was an entire manor district further up the coast, along with an impressive cathedral looming atop the rocks. He supposed that that was the one that Ophilia had been planning on visiting the next day. 

“So, this is Goldshore...” murmured Ophilia, looking around. “My, it’s quite quaint. I say that I like it already.” 

_ We’re literally only thirty seconds into the gate, and you **still**  decide that so soon? _ Therion thought, rolling his eyes. It was certainly pleasant, he’d give her that. Where they were was lined with shops and situated right next to the seawall, with steps leading down to the sand below. But, though it looked perfectly innocent, Therion knew well enough that that might not mean much in the end; Towns that looked pretty often had a sinister underbelly, if one knew just where to look, just which shadows to peer into. 

So, he had to wonder— did this lovely little shoreside village hold some kind of secret? 

Just then, while Therion pondered this, a little girl running up the steps tripped hard, sending her collection of seashells flying, and Alfyn broke away from the group without a second thought. 

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Ophilia, also rushing over, and Therion glanced over at Cyrus, at H’aanit. The two of them didn’t seem terribly sure what to do, which was almost relieving. He didn’t like children all that much. He never knew what to do with them, so interacting with them was always uncomfortable for him. 

The healers asked her if she was okay, and the girl nodded. She didn’t cry, necessarily, but she seemed shaken nonetheless. Therion supposed that he couldn’t have blamed her too much— her knee was scraped open and bleeding down her leg. 

Ophilia and Alfyn talked with the girl while they healed her. Or, rather, while Alfyn specifically patched her up. Ophilia tended not to use clerical healing on small wounds, if she could avoid it— though she was capable, it was still very tiring for her.

Alfyn introduced himself to the girl, who shakily named herself as Ellen.

Therion tore his attention away from the healers and the child. Instead, he focused on the shoreline, watching the waves lap at the sand. He could see why the town was named as it was— this particular beach was so brilliantly sparkling and golden that it looked as if it were made of coin, of fragments of something precious, and while Therion wasn’t normally one to admire scenery, he couldn’t help but to then. 

“This is your first visit to the Coastlands, I gather?” presumed Cyrus, and Therion gave a vague shrug. 

“... Never had reason to go this far.” 

“Hm, yes, this  _ is  _ quite a distance from the Cliftlands...” Cyrus agreed, thoughtfully. “And I really cannot imagine that there would outwardly appear to be anything of much interest to you here... so I’m not too shocked that you wouldn’t have ventured all the way here before now.” 

_ Which is why I’m still not sure why I’m here in the first place... _

He glanced over towards where Alfyn and Ophilia were, and Ellen was standing once more, smiling radiantly up at them. She gleefully referred to Alfyn as a “pock-a-therry”, which made Ophilia burst into peals of laughter. 

They looked... happy, Therion thought, and he didn’t really understand why. Something about the scene in front of him felt strange, felt lonely somehow, like watching something he had no right to see. 

It left a taste in his mouth, bitter and unwanted, and he felt the urge to spit it out.

Ophilia returned to the group, and Therion watched Ellen pull Alfyn by the hand back to a house close to where they stood, telling him all about her sister Flynn, who was apparently very, very sick. So, like any good apothecary ( _ pock-a-therry _ ), he followed her without question, entering the house behind her. Therion supposed that he’d be busy for a while.

But, to his surprise, Alfyn came back out not a minute after he went in, scratching his head in confusion. 

“... That was quick,” commented Therion, and Alfyn gave him a bewildered shrug. 

“You’re tellin’ me! I just went in there to take a look at Ellen’s sister, and her ma gets right up an’ tells me that she’s already been treated, thank you very much, and that she doesn’t need help from some scruffy guy like me.” 

Therion stifled a snicker into his scarf. Cyrus made a small, sympathetic noise. 

“I mean, havin’ said that, I’m definitely happy that the other girl’s feelin’ better,” Alfyn continued, sheepishly. “But, sheesh, she coulda... I dunno, maybe been a little less rude about it?” 

She probably could have, Therion supposed, but he still found it amusing that she had outright called him scruffy, so he didn’t really care much.  _ Let his feelings be hurt a bit, if that’ll convince him to get a fucking haircut. _

“It is good that the girl is feeling better,” Ophilia acquiesced, mildly. “Perhaps the mother is simply stressed... Seeing people suffering is always terrible. Especially when it’s your own family...”

The way her voice trailed off sounded so forlorn, and Therion remembered that her own father was suffering right then, at that very moment, and she likely had no idea of his condition. Alfyn and H’aanit patted her shoulders in support, and she smiled faintly. 

Therion didn’t know what to do then, either, so he didn’t do anything.

Compared to the others, on average, he never seemed to really know what to do.

After that, they managed to locate the inn, and Alfyn happily paid for the three available rooms (not without first giving Therion a dazzling smile in thanks, and he was _really_ starting to regret paying him back). Two had two beds, and one had one. Cyrus took the room with one, since he apparently wanted to work on various studies throughout the night and didn’t wish to disturb anyone, and that left a room for the women, and one for Alfyn and Therion to share.

_ Great. _

They dropped off their belongings in their respective rooms, and dispersed after that. Cyrus wanted to sit back and read before getting dinner. H’aanit and Ophilia were going to the tavern right away, as they were famished. Alfyn was going out to check on the townsfolk. Therion, well, he decided that he had might as well trudge along with him, keep his ear open at he talked. Sometimes his useless chatter revealed more things about the locals than he expected, after all. Perhaps he’d manage to pilfer something very interesting if he stuck around for a bit, if not simply a tip about which merchants carried the most valuable wares.

That, or he'd just have to listen to a hundred banal conversations about the weather, their family members, the upcoming markets, and all the other small-talk that the regular folk tended to participate in. Walking places with him was always a mixed bag, for that.

They stepped outside, breathing in the fresh air. It really did have a distinct smell, Therion thought. It was strange, almost unpleasant at times, but he didn't dislike it, per se. 

Alfyn had really,  _ really  _ wanted him to come along to experience it, for some reason. He supposed that, after suffering his way through the sailing and the nausea and the thousands of little smiles, of warm gazes and barely-concealed enthusiasm, he had might as well  _ try _ to enjoy it.

If only a little.

If only for his own selfish reasons.

Sure enough, to Therion's complete and utter lack of surprise, Alfyn was drawn to the townsfolk like a moth to a lantern, chatting them up and asking them about their families and what's been happening as of late, inquiring about all the things an out-of-towner might want to know about, and he learned something rather interesting— a good portion of the town had been infected with the same fever that Flynn had been suffering from, and a kindly apothecary came along and cured them for free.  

Alfyn seemed delighted to hear that someone else out there shared his philosophy. Therion was starting to wonder if all apothecaries were equally insane. 

“Man...” Alfyn said, once they parted ways with the woman he had been talking with. “I'd really like to meet this other apothecary. I mean, doin’ things for free? Sounds like they're my kinda person, heheh.” 

“As in, just as dumb as you?” ventured Therion, and he received a soft elbow to the ribs. 

“Hey, now, I don't care if you call  _ me _ dumb, but you can't be so quick to judge this other person without havin' met 'em,” Alfyn laughed, wagging his finger reproachfully, and Therion rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I don't care much if other apothecaries charge for their services. It's a job like any other. What matters is them wantin’ to help above all else.”

“... But you still like to talk with like-minded people,” supposed Therion, and Alfyn nodded.

“‘Course I do. Much as I like to hear ‘bout other people’s perspectives, it’s still nice to find other people who’re already on the same page, y’know? I’m sure it’s the same for you, right?”

Therion wasn’t too sure, since thieves generally tended to avoid working with others in the first place, but he supposed that Alfyn had a point. 

“Anyways, I’m real curious as to what they’re like,” continued Alfyn, with a faraway tone to his voice. “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if I convinced ‘em to come with us, too?” 

_ No, please don’t... _ thought Therion, sighing tiredly.  _ There’s already too many damn people in our group to begin with. _

Besides, one apothecary was enough. Considering how painfully slow it was to go anywhere with the chattiest apothecary on the continent trailing along next to him, he didn’t even want to imagine having to trudge behind  _ two _ bleeding heart idiots hellsbent on wrapping every papercut they found in salve and bandages.

One... was enough.

“Hmm...?” hummed Alfyn, tipping his head to the side. “Now what’s goin’ on up that way...?” 

Therion glanced up, and saw what he meant— a group of people were clustered in the near distance, all surrounding a lone figure in the center of it. _A merchant, perhaps?_

Sure enough, as they drew nearer, the scene became clearer. A woman was standing in the middle of the crowd, smiling demurely. People left and right of her gushed their praise, thanking her, and Therion’s eyes narrowed, interested. Who was she? 

“Hmm?” hummed Alfyn. “An apothecary’s satchel?” 

“... You think she’s the apothecary that’s been treating the epidemic?” wondered Therion, and Alfyn scratched his head. 

“I mean, unless there’s a third apothecary traipsin’ around town, I’d assume so.” 

They continued to approach. The woman seemed to be slowly heading their way, stopping to talk with all who thanked her, and Therion observed her. Pale skin, dark hair. Young, perhaps only a couple of years older than them, if that. She wore a short white mantle somewhat reminiscent of Alfyn’s, and a bag similar to his, as well, and had a sense of poise about her, of knowledge. All in all, she definitely  _ seemed _ to be the one that had singlehandedly saved the bulk of the town.

The woman came their way, and her eyes lingered on Alfyn’s bag, on his mantle, and her boots stopped. There was, for a moment, something nearing confusion in her eyes, but she soon smiled. 

“Well, good afternoon,” she greeted, and she had an inflection vaguely similar to Cyrus’s.  _ Is she from Atlasdam? _ “Might you be a colleague of mine?” 

“Seems so,” replied Alfyn, sticking out his hand. “The name’s Alfyn. Alfyn Greengrass. I’m an apothecary from Clearbrook.” 

She took his hand and shook it. “Vanessa Hysel, also an apothecary. I hail from the Flatlands, myself.” 

_ Flatlands. Damn I’m good. _

“Oh, and this is my friend Therion,” Alfyn added, and Therion used every last shred of his willpower to avoid rolling his eyes as he reached out and shook her hand, careful to avoid revealing his bangle. 

“I’m pleased to make the acquaintances of you both,” Vanessa said, lightly clasping her hands before her. “Now, is there anything that I may help you with?” 

_ Nah, we’re good, _ thought Therion, but Alfyn nodded, and he suppressed the urge to groan. Why, oh  _ why _ did he insist on talking exhaustively to every single godsdamned person they met...? 

“Oh, I was just wonderin’ if you might be the one I’ve been hearin’ so much about from the townsfolk,” replied Alfyn, grinning. “Apparently there was a fever goin’ around here not twelve hours ago. I wouldn’t have guessed, lookin’ at how lively everyone seems to be.” 

“Ah, yes...” Vanessa hummed, smoothing hands over her apron. “It was nothing too severe, thankfully. Just a simple fever, easily treatable. Certainly nothing worth such commendation.” 

“I checked on the girl, Flynn. Wasn’t even a trace of fever left,” Alfyn said, impressed, and Therion turned his attention towards her, watching her expression. She didn’t seem surprised to hear that her fever broke. Of course, with all her supposed skill, she shouldn’t have been shocked. 

“Ah, I’m so very happy to hear that,” she replied, giggling softly. “Her fever was quite high, after all... her poor mother had to change the cloth on her head every thirty seconds, at least. It soothes my heart to know that she is well once more.” 

“Shucks, that high?” Alfyn’s eyebrows shot up. “Man, an’ yet it was broken so perfectly...” 

His tone was so sincerely admiring that Therion felt a stab of something vaguely like jealousy, but he shrugged it off. Whatever. If he wanted to fawn over her, so be it. 

“Now... I hope this isn’t too bold of me to ask, but d’you reckon I could see what you gave her?” Alfyn asked, and her smile wavered. 

“I’m... sorry?” 

“Oh, just what you gave Flynn to break her fever,” Alfyn continued, missing her hesitation. “I mean, I’ve got things to cure a fever, but nothin’ that effective. I’m a little but curious, y’know?” 

For a brief instant, Therion saw something close to fear cross through her eyes, but it vanished almost instantly, replaced with a sheepishness that seemed perfectly natural.

Why... would she be fearful of such an innocent request?

“Ah, well...” she sighed, embarrassed. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ll have to respectfully decline. This is my career, after all. Some of these concoctions are of my own invention, and I cannot share their recipes quite yet, I’m afraid...” 

Therion narrowed his eyes, but Alfyn just shrugged. 

“Ah, yeah, that’s perfectly fair,” he acquiesced, scratching the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t wanna take your business away or anythin’.” 

Her smile became radiant, but there was definitely an undercurrent of relief within it. Why would she be relieved? 

“Thank you for understanding. It’s certainly nothing against you, personally. Many apothecaries don’t show each other their wares.” 

Therion... admittedly wasn’t an expert, but he still didn’t think that to be true at all. Out of all professions, why on earth would one based around  _ altruism  _ be secretive? 

If Alfyn found that weird, he didn’t show it. He just smiled as if she gave a completely normal response, nudging his shoulders in a little shrug.

“Sure, that’s fine. I’ll leave ya to it, then. Maybe we’ll see each other around.” 

“Thank you, once again,” she said, clasping her hands together lightly. “And yes, perhaps we will. After all... there are a lot of people affected by illness here. I should be here for a while yet...” 

She sighed, and something felt artificial about it, misplaced somehow, and Therion’s eyes narrowed further. 

“Ah, yeah, looks like I’ll be, too. See you around, yeah?” 

They parted ways, and she disappeared around a corner. Therion kept his gaze locked on the spot where she had left, as if waiting for her to poke her her head out, but she didn’t. Vanessa truly had ventured off elsewhere, it seemed.

“I don’t trust her,” Therion said, as soon as he had deemed them as being far enough away that she wouldn’t hear, and Alfyn tipped his head.

“Huh? Why don’t ya trust her?” Alfyn asked, and Therion gave him an incredulous look. After all of her suspicious behaviour, he still felt the need to ask?

“What do you  _ mean _ , ‘Why don’t I trust her’?” repeated Therion, aghast. “It’s obvious, medicine man. She’s hiding something.” 

If that had occurred to Alfyn, he didn’t show it on his face. He just looked puzzled, brow wrinkling as if he secretly thought that whatever he was hung up on was a bit absurd, and Therion despised it. 

“Hidin’ somethin’? What, like her refusin’ to show me her concoctions?” he wondered, and Therion gave a nod.

“Uh,  _ yeah _ . Don’t you think it’s weird? That she wouldn’t show you  _ anything _ ?” 

“Well...” Alfyn relented. “... I mean, I guess it’s a  _ bit _ odd, but... it’s still nothin’ I’d really hold against her. Like... we’ve all got secrets, I guess.” 

Alfyn’s explanation didn’t sound convincing to Therion, who had suffered through enough shit like this to know better, and he clicked his tongue in frustration. How could he get it through to him that she was probably planning something here? 

How could he make him understand without  _ telling  _ him anything about himself?

“Secrets? Alfyn, are you  _ listening  _ to yourself? This is  _ medical knowledge _ , for the god’s sakes. I’m not exactly an  _ expert _ , but I don’t think that ‘secrets’ are something you should  _ have _ in medicine.” 

It came out a bit more forcefully than he had intended, a bit harsher, and Alfyn looked uncertain. He fiddled with the strap of his bag, looking Therion over with those big brown eyes, and he realized all at once that Alfyn wasn’t doubting Vanessa— he was doubting  _ him _ .

Why? Why wouldn't he believe him?

His skin crawled, he felt itchy and restless and  _ angry _ underneath his wandering eyes, and his temper started to move outside of his control.

What the fuck did  _Alfyn_ know about the world and how it worked? 

What would _he_ know about betrayal?

“Have any  _ other  _ apothecaries you’ve met intentionally keep you from seeing what they’ve made?” continued Therion, mercilessly, and Alfyn let out a small huff.

“W-well,  _ look _ , it ain’t... It’s not as if there’s a whole lotta  _ other _ apothecaries in Clearbrook for me to’ve talked to. It’s just me n' Zeph, and Zeph’s father, before he passed.” 

“Fascinating,” Therion snarled, and each word was as cutting as glass. “So it’s just your little buddy Zeph and his dad. Obviously none of _them_ would keep secrets from you.” 

Alfyn's eyes narrowed. “O-obviously not, no.”

“But if they’re the  _ only _ apothecaries you know, then what makes you think that you’d know  _ anything  _ about whether or not this is weird, huh? What makes you think you know  _ shit  _ about this??”

“Wh— hey, now...” Alfyn said, holding up a hand. Therion held his tongue long enough to allow him to continue. “I, uh... y’know, I appreciate the concern, but let's calm down, okay? I mean... what’re you so worried about?”

Therion blinked, incredulous, and he lost it. 

“W-what am I  _ worried about?!  _ Are you really fucking  _ listening _ to yourself right now?! Do you really,  _ seriously _ see nothing wrong with how she was acting?!” 

“No, I don’t!” Alfyn snapped back, starting to lose some of his patience. “Look, Therion, she’s an  _ apothecary _ , okay? Apothecaries are here to  _ help  _ people, no matter how much or how little you trust ‘em. And while you  _ obviously _ don’t trust her, because you don’t fuckin’ trust  _ anyone _ , I’m not gonna let you treat her as some kind’ve suspicious person just because of _that_ , al _right_?” 

_Yeah, and there's a fucking **reason** I don't trust too easily, asshole._ Therion threw his hands up from frustration, fool's bangle chain clanking.

“What the  _ fuck _ makes you think that just because someone’s an apothecary means they’ll lay down their fucking lives to cure everyone’s sniffly noses and scraped knees, huh?!” Therion nearly shouted, and Alfyn’s expression contorted like he’d been slapped, eyes bright from outrage. “What kind of naive, idealistic fucking horseshit dream world are you  _ living _ in, Alfyn?! Grow up! The whole world isn’t fucking  _ Clearbrook,  _ you stupid hick."

“I might be nothin’ more than a stupid hick, but at least I’m— at least I’m not a fuckin’...” 

“A what, Alfyn, a _what?!_ ” Therion snarled, and he was so incensed that he missed the flinch in Alfyn’s eyes, the horrified remorse at what he _nearly said to him_ , and he grabbed fistfuls of his mantle, pulling him closer. “What the _fuck_ were you going to say to me, huh?”

With Therion's hands on him, Alfyn's rage was extinguished like a candle in a windstorm, snuffed instantly, and he swallowed under his glare, withering.

“I’m... I didn't...” Alfyn all but whimpered, his fury lost, but Therion didn’t even care. He didn’t hear it. 

“At least you’re not a fucking  _ thief _ , huh?” muttered Therion, disbelief and pain weighing down his voice.

And then, he smiled. 

Had one asked Alfyn, though, this really,  _ really _ wouldn’t have been the smile he wanted to see. Not one crooked, broken, on the verge of being glossy with tears. 

Not one he caused. Not one like this.

He hesitated for a moment too long, struck dumb by the sight, and Therion scoffed, pushing him away hard. Alfyn staggered back a few steps, wide-eyed, horrified.

What had he done?

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” Therion spat, and he turned on his heel and left.

Alfyn didn’t follow. He just stood there in silence, frozen like a statue.

What had he done...?

From that point, Therion didn’t know where to go, or what to do once he went there. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. His belongings were still at the inn. He couldn’t leave without the chance of seeing him again. And, while he would live without the rest of his things, starting over _sucked_ , and he wasn't much in the mood to leave his belongings behind.

He felt trapped, and he didn't know what to do. 

He eventually found himself the most isolated part of the back alleys, far away from even the vagrants of the town, and he slumped against the wall, choking out bitter, enraged tears, crying his humiliation and frustration out alone into the bricks.

_ At least I’m not a fuckin’  _ **_thief_ ** _.  _

He bit back a sob. 

_ Yeah. At least... he’s not... a thief. _

He didn't mean to, but he ended up sitting there for a while, letting out his emotions, waiting until he was sure that Alfyn had to have tired of waiting, of searching (if he'd even bother trying to look for a _thief_ ) and had gone elsewhere, and he scrubbed the salt away with his scarf, pretended that nothing had happened. Like he always did. 

He was a master at running from things, after all.

Things after that... were awkward. Therion went out of his way to avoid him for the rest of the day, skulking around town and ducking into the shadows when he saw him in the distance. It was childish, he knew, and perhaps a bit petty. However, he couldn't help it. His words came back whenever he looked at his face, reminded him of just how pathetic a person Alfyn probably really saw him as, and he hated it. He hated it a hell of a lot more than he hated Alfyn right then, and he didn't have the fortitude to deal with it.

It wasn't something he wanted to think about.

The others weren't spared from this, either. Therion shied away from seeing any of them, because he knew that they would inevitably ask about Alfyn, if he wasn't already there with them, and he hated that they had started to associate him with the apothecary to the point where he was the most likely person to know of his whereabouts.

So, he didn’t want to deal with it. His specialty was avoidance, and this was no exception. 

When dinner came around, he ate a quick meal at the tavern, sitting firmly in the darkest corner in case Alfyn came in (or any of the others, for that matter), then went straight back to the inn to go to bed, because if he pretended to sleep, then he wouldn't have to talk, and the less talking to him, the better. 

Only, his plan was promptly crumpled up and thrown out the window when he unlocked the inn door and found Alfyn already in there, preparing herbs at the desk.

“O-oh... hey,” Alfyn said, and there was an emptiness to his tone that sent a wave of ice through Therion’s heart. “Nice to see you back.” 

Therion genuinely couldn’t tell whether or not he was being honest there, but considering everything from earlier, he assumed that he wasn’t. 

“... Hm,” he shrugged.

And that was all he said to him. Therion entered the room and locked the door behind him, getting ready for bed in an awkward silence, and Alfyn didn’t break it.

It was uncomfortable, and, to his shock, Therion didn’t like it at all.

He threw a glance over at Alfyn. For once, he was almost perfectly silent. He quietly chopped up some roots and scraped leaves off of stems, plucked petals from flowers, and didn’t even look his way. 

He didn’t even hum, or whistle, and Therion had never even realized just how quiet Alfyn could be, if he really wanted. 

Oddly enough, he didn’t enjoy it as much as he thought he would. 

The only words that Alfyn offered him that night was a soft inquiry of  _ Goin’ to bed now?  _ when Therion got under his covers, and, when Therion replied that he was, he bade him goodnight, wishing him a good sleep, though it felt flatter than usual, less warm. It lingered like pain from a scratch, leached into his dreams and stayed with him right through to the next morning. Alfyn was still asleep by the time Therion stirred. He didn’t disturb him. 

He supposed, as he got dressed for the day, that he could simply leave right then and there, since it was clear that Alfyn didn’t like him anymore, but he didn’t. He left his things where they were and stepped out for some breakfast, making minimal conversation with those he ran into at the tavern (which happened to be Ophilia and H’aanit). Apparently they were going to meet up with Cyrus later to perform the Kindling ceremony at the cathedral, and he was welcome to join, if he so wished. 

Therion lied and said that he had a bit of a headache, so he might have to pass. 

The others could sense that  _ something _ happened between them, judging by how his expression tightened whenever someone mentioned Alfyn’s name, whenever they talked about the fever that had been sweeping the town, and he stopped talking. Knowing him, if he wasn't still sleeping, he was probably working hard trying to concoct medicines alongside Vanessa, helping to fix the residents back up, and it stung, somehow. 

He did say that it would be nice to talk to other people like himself. Other selfless, gentle, generous people, apparently.

( _People unlike you, you piece of shit._ )

But, well, regardless of what had happened yesterday, Therion was still suspicious. Something still bothered him about Vanessa, despite Alfyn’s refusal to see any of her actions as  _ really fucking weird _ , and he felt the urge to investigate further, somehow. Why, he didn’t know. It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t something he needed to get involved in. 

Yet, he couldn’t seem to give up on the thought.  _ Something  _ about her felt extremely dangerous, and he had the sinking suspicion that, if he didn’t at least  _ try _ to dig up some dirt on her, something bad might happen. 

He’s learned the hard way, after all, to listen to his gut instinct. 

Ophilia and H’aanit could tell that he was in less of a mood than usual to chat, and left him to it, telling him that they’d see him later, and he nodded. He might. He probably would. 

Perhaps. 

And while he could have technically left then, if he wanted, he had left his stuff at the inn. Going back meant possibly running into Alfyn awake, and he didn’t have the fortitude to deal with  _ that _ right then.

So, he decided not to.

Besides, he still had the overwhelming urge to track down Vanessa, as if he’d discover her secretly drugging her patients and stealing their belongings, or something equally absurd, and he stood up, paid for his breakfast. Fuck it. He’d play detective, like the professor seemed to enjoy so much. Maybe it would be fun. 

He wove his way through the cobbled streets, passing by townsfolk and picking up gossip and trinkets as he went. They didn’t carry much, it seemed (not in this part of town, anyways), but that didn’t even bother him too much— what they had to say fascinated him more. 

_ Whooping cough _ . 

Therion had.... heard of it. He didn’t really know what it  _ was _ , per se, but he had heard that it was dangerous. 

Was this something that Vanessa would have to deal with?

_ Does Alfyn know? _ he wondered, but shook his head. 

_ Who fucking cares? _

He wandered up the main street, crossing over the large bridge that headed up towards the town square. In the distance, he could see a collection of people standing at the center of it, around something (someone?), and his brow furrowed. That seemed... weird. What on earth was going on over there? Last he checked, it wasn’t a market day, nor a festival day. 

So what was going on?

As he drew nearer, he began to see the forms of the people. They were mostly poor and middle-class, all of them gesticulating towards a woman with a white mantle and a satchel.

_ Ah-ha. _ Somehow, finding that it  _ was _ Vanessa at the center of the crowd only made him feel more suspicious, more wary of this whole thing, and he approached them a bit faster. Mixed voices rang out, varying emotions scattered through the mob, and he could pick out fear, desperation, frustration, misery. 

Resignation. Pleading. 

_ Coercion... _

“— us, please, help us—“

“— Hysel, please, I can’t afford—“

“— too much, please—“

“— daughter will die, please—”

Please, please, _please_. Therion heard them all begging, and understood exactly what this was all about. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Therion knew full well that she wasn’t fucking sorry, not in the slightest. “But the epidemic afflicting your family members is only treatable with a certain component, you see.... and I can only acquire it from one place. This whooping cough is only cured by a certain moss.” 

“Moss?” some of them repeated, glancing at each other. It was a very... anticlimactic ingredient. 

“Yes, but do not be fooled. I am not referring to the mosses that grow on roof shingles, but rather a moss that sprouts within one specific, treacherous cave.”

“B-but miss,” a mother stammered, pulling her baby closer. Even from there, on the far edge of the circle, Therion could hear its weak, wheezing coughs. “I do...  _ understand _ that this tonic must be difficult to make... and therefore expensive. Especially since the disease... comes from so far south. But...” 

Vanessa said nothing, and the mother sniffled, breaking down into tears as her infant coughed in her arms. “... P-please, I beg of you! I can’t... I can’t  _ afford  _ to pay a hundred thousand leaves upfront. I can’t. I c-can’t afford it...” 

Therion blinked, stunned. A _ hundred thousand leaves? Aeber, that's a lot. _

The woman was crying now, holding her baby tight against her breast, and Vanessa gave a sad smile in return. Her expression was convincing, but the bland, bored hollowness behind her eyes reminded him of something (of some _one_ ) very, very unpleasant.

Oh, he hated her already.

“Please, Miss Hysel,  _ please _ !”

“I’m terribly sorry...” she murmured. “... But, with the epidemic going around, this medicine is currently in very high demand. I am in short supply, at the moment. I cannot afford to simply give it away.”

The woman cried harder, desperate, and Therion swore that he could see the faintest roll of Vanessa’s eyes as she turned her attention towards another woman standing near her. Unlike the first one, she had a modest purse in her hand, threadbare and patched. 

“Please,” she said, and her voice was tight, strained. “I know that this... is not one hundred thousand leaves. It’s... not even close, I’m sure. But... this is all I have to my name. My daughter Flynn is dying, and...” 

_ Flynn...  _ Therion thought.  _ Wasn’t that the girl who Alfyn tried to check up on yesterday?  _

_ One that Vanessa treated for a fever....? _

Her voice broke, and she swallowed, desperately trying to keep her words even. “... Sh-she’s dying, and... this is... all I could scrape together, and— please, Miss Hysel. I... I know that you’ve already done...  _ so _ much for us, but... if you were to consider this offering, and sell me a phial of medicine for Flynn...” 

Therion knew what she would say. He could see the vague disdain in her eyes, the minute curl of her lips, and he knew, just by that glance at her face alone, that she didn’t give a  _ fuck  _ whether or not the girl died. 

“... I’m so sorry to hear that sweet little Flynn has caught the whooping cough...” Vanessa said, and the tinge of poison in her tone was horribly, hideously obvious to him. “... But, as I said before... demand is very high right now. I cannot afford to sell this for less than its face value.” 

He didn’t normally get involved. 

“You understand... don’t you?” asked Vanessa, humble and apologetic and cunning, and Flynn’s mother swallowed.

He shouldn’t have cared.

“Y-yes. I... I understand.”

He knew that things would only get messy if he tried to step into this somehow.

Flynn’s mother lowered her arm, tilting her head back to gaze at the sky. Therion could see her expression, her silent beseeching to the gods to beg for mercy, and Vanessa turned back towards the others, taking the leaves of the upperclassmen who were starting to trickle in. They, of course, could afford to spare the leaves for a phial or two, and Therion watched them pass over bulging sacks of money with itchy fingers. 

She stashed them in her bag, but it was a different style than Alfyn’s, easier to open.

He’d keep that in mind. 

But, besides that, an overwhelming desire to do  _ something _ flooded his mind, and he decided that the best thing he could do was to find out what kind of moss this was, or else what kind of alternatives there might be, so that Alfyn could cure Flynn instead. 

_ Alfyn... _

He’d have to tell Alfyn about all of this, which didn’t excite him too terribly much, after their little spat. 

But, after having seen Flynn’s mother like that, after seeing the helpless tears welling in her eyes, after having heard the fear in her voice, the undertone of  _ What am I supposed to  _ **_do_ ** _?  _ in her words... he felt that he had to.

After all, he'd seen this before, but the other way around. A boy sobbing at the feet of an apothecary, begging him to give him medicine for his mother.

So, whether he liked it or not, he had to find Alfyn. 

He broke free from the crowd and rushed back towards the shoreline. It was just after three o’clock, so Alfyn could have been anywhere. Therion didn’t actually know  _ where  _ he  was, since he’d been keeping his distance from him since their argument, and it irritated him somewhat. 

Funny how it was, how he couldn’t have cared less as to what that dumb bastard was doing in the beginning, and now...

_ It’s just for convenience’s sake... _ thought Therion, peering in the windows of the tavern. Alfyn wasn’t in there.  _ Just so I don’t have to check down every single street to find him _ . 

He didn’t have to, as it turned out. Just before he was about to head into the inn, he heard his voice echoing over the sound of the waves.

Following the sound brought him to the seawall, and he saw Alfyn playing with Ellen on the beach. She held a seashell in one hand and a rudimentary shovel in the other. It looked like Alfyn was playing a game with her by trying to take the shovel from her.

Therion watched him chase the girl in the sand, heard his laugh ring out and rebound over the seawall. She was laughing, squealing from delight whenever he nearly caught her, and his chest ached. Even now, he chose to distract the girl from her sister’s sickness, despite his own stress, his own frustrations. 

_ Why don’t you just go? _ A voice murmured, and Therion couldn’t tell whose it was. A cross between the usual suspect and his own voice, he thought. 

_ He already hates you, by now. Why don’t you just leave him alone, huh? Let him forget all about you. Let him look at the empty bed beside him and think ‘Good riddance’.  _

_ What’s stopping you? _

Not much, Therion knew. Not much at all, nowhere near enough things to keep him shackled to them, and yet... 

The girl noticed him and stopped, looking up and tilting her head, and Therion froze as Alfyn’s eyes climbed the seawall and locked onto him, holding him in place. He didn’t look angry to see him, but Therion still felt as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

He wanted to run, but he forced himself to stay still, to face him. This wasn’t about him, or himself. This was about a little girl.

“Alfyn,” he said. His voice sounded strange, pinched, and he hoped that Alfyn didn’t notice it.

“Hey, buddy,” he replied, but his tone was slightly flat. Therion wondered if he thought that he had come back to yell at him some more. 

“Hiii!” Ellen called, waving enthusiastically, and Therion hesitated. “Are you one of mister Alfyn’s friends?!” 

“I...” he started, tongue tripping over the  _ no _ that tried to come out instead, and he didn’t really understand. “... Kin...da...?” 

_ Kinda _ . It was... not entirely true, not entirely false. Whatever the answer was, though, he didn’t particularly want to discourage a child  _ right in front of Alfyn _ . 

“What’s your name?” she yelled, unrestrained and excited, and Therion wilted further. Gods, but how does one  _ talk  _ to children? He never figured out how to approach them, or what to do with them. 

“His name is Therion,” Alfyn supplied, and his tone was gentler, kinder. Therion figured that it was just because he was talking to the girl. “And... yeah, he’s my friend.” 

_ Even after all that, you still call me your friend? _

Therion felt something complex then, something cool like a cloth draped over his forehead and heavy like regret, and he didn’t know what it meant. 

“Alfyn,” Therion tried again, trying to speak more levelly. This time, it sounded a bit better. “Can I talk with you for a moment?” 

For a fraction of a second, Alfyn’s eyebrows drew together. He probably assumed that Therion had come back just to fight more with him, and his lips pressed into a line. 

But, upon observing Therion for a moment, seeing his discomfort, he relaxed. He let out a breath. His expression softened. 

“‘Course ya can,” he said, and Therion didn’t doubt the sincerity in his voice. “You don’t need to ask.” 

He did, Therion thought, because he had pissed him off enough in the first place to see him upset, for the first time, and it had unnerved him to the point of keeping his distance. 

But that wasn’t really  _ Alfyn’s _ fault, was it? Not entirely, at least.

Alfyn and Ellen ascended the steps to meet Therion on the seawall. He adjusted his scarf as the ocean winds pulled it around, fiddled with his bangle under his mantle. 

_ Alfyn probably wouldn’t hurt you in front of a child, _ he reminded himself, and he tried to stop fidgeting. 

“I... h-how’s Flynn?” he asked, stuttering, and Alfyn’s expression became puzzled. 

“Huh? Flynn?” he asked, tilting his head. “She, ah, took the medicine that Vanessa gave her yesterday, and she’s restin’ at home. Why?”

“Have you checked on her since?” 

Alfyn’s eyes became concerned, and Therion supposed that he couldn’t blame him— that was an awfully ominous statement to make out of nowhere. 

“N-no, I haven’t... Why? Did you hear somethin’?” 

_ Did you  _ **_actually_ ** _ hear something? Is that what you’re trying to get at? _

Therion felt a twinge of irritation, frustration, but he bit it down, swallowed it back. Now wasn’t the time to fight. Not then, not when a kid’s life was at stake, not— 

“Mama sent me out to play earlier without saying why...” Ellen ventured, helpfully. “... I told her I wanted to stay with Flynn, ‘n make sure she was okay, but she said no. Mama took me outside and said that she was going to the market and then told me to go play at the beach... but no swimming because she’s not there!” 

“Did she, now?” replied Alfyn, nodding thoughtfully. “And how was Flynn when you left?” 

Ellen’s eyes darkened. “Umm...”

Alfyn and Therion glanced at each other. 

“She was... coughing...” Ellen eventually said, shifting uncomfortably. “Lots of coughing.” 

“... Coughing?” repeated Alfyn, and Therion felt a twinge of worry at his confusion. This evidently wasn’t normal. 

Ellen nodded. “Y-yeah... Really big coughs.” 

Alfyn considered her words, slowly pushing a hand through his hair. “Lots of really big coughs... Okay. When did this start?” 

“Umm... Last night, just after bedtime.” 

They had run into Ellen and the others just before dinner, so there hadn’t been much time between the fever and her coughing. Alfyn’s slow combing turned to scratching as he thought it out. 

“... Hmm,” he eventually replied, and Therion could see the pulleys moving in his head, the cogs turning.“... That’s definitely weird. Thanks for tellin’ me, Ellen. You’ve been a big help.” 

His tone was kind, gentle, and it soothed her a bit. 

“Ellen?” a woman’s voice called, and the girl looked up, eyes illuminating. 

“Mama!” she called, waving. Her mother gave a small, tired wave in return. 

“Hello, darling. Who are you talking to over there?” 

But, as she approached, Therion could see the recognition in her eyes, the awkward expression of someone who ran into someone they had once slighted, and he had to stifle a snicker. _Here he is, the scruffy apothecary himself._

“Mama! You met mister Alfyn already, but this is my new friend, mister Therion!” 

_ Mister? _ Therion’s brow scrunched, but he didn’t comment on it. 

“Ah, yes, I remember Alfyn...” she replied, uncertainly, and her eyes wandered over his satchel, over his green mantle. “The apothecary, yes?” 

“That’s it,” Alfyn grinned. “At your service.”

“Th-thank you... and this is a friend of yours?” she wondered, glancing suspiciously towards Therion. 

“Yeah, he's my friend,” replied Alfyn, without missing a beat. “Anyways, I was curious about how Flynn was doin’. Whatever Vanessa gave her yesterday sure seemed to bring that fever down, eh?”

And while she should, in theory, have simply said that she was doing great, or that she was just dealing with allergies and therefore had a cough, her expression became clouded with worry.  

“Y-yes, it certainly did,” she eventually said, wringing her hands together. “But it seems that Flynn has... somehow come down with the most terrible cough in the meantime...”

Alfyn made a sympathetic noise, nodding. “I see... I’m real sorry to hear that. Was Vanessa goin’ to take a look at her?” 

Therion already knew that she wouldn’t. The girls’ mother knew that, too, and she gave a sad, resigned smile, fiddling uncomfortably with her apron. 

“Ah... n-no, I... I don’t think she will,” she murmured, voice dropping to something quieter, something uncomfortable, and Alfyn frowned. Something had evidently happened, but he couldn’t discern what, exactly.

“Huh, okay...” he ventured, running a hand through his hair. “I’m... I know I’m not Vanessa, but if you wanted, I’ll gladly take a look at her cough free of charge, n’ see if I have anything that’ll soothe it.” 

“W-would you? Would you really?” she stuttered, eyes wide, glimmering with hope, and Alfyn smiled.

“‘Course I will. I’m an apothecary, right? I’m here to help people, no matter who they are.” 

“E-even... even if they have very little to their name?” 

His smile became a grin. “ _ Especially _ if they’ve got little to offer. I don’t help people for payment.”

She looked down at Therion, as if she was searching him to check if he was lying, but he just gave a small nod. That really was his modus operandi, whether he liked it or not. 

For a moment, none of them said anything. Seagulls cried from the rooftops, a pair of children laughed as they ran down the steps to the beach. Those that were out were lively, for the most part. 

But, Therion had also heard the desperation of the crowd, and he knew just how many people were probably in their homes, sitting at the bedside of their loved ones, tearfully whispering to them that they couldn’t afford Vanessa’s medicine, that they had some tea that might help, that they would offer their prayers to the gods to consider, begging for them to spare the sick, the dying. 

And while he knew to mind his business where he could, he remembered the emaciated form of his mother, coughing and squeezing his little hand, telling him that Mama couldn’t pay for her medicine, and he wouldn’t be silent on this. 

How many other people in this town were in the same position? How many other people also had to feel this pain, this injustice, this  _ fear _ upon realizing that they didn’t have enough coin to make them valuable enough to save? How many other sick mothers and fathers would have to tell their children that they’d be okay, that the gods would take care of them, that they would always watch over them? 

How many people would die, if he just stepped back? 

How many other children would turn into thieves like him?

Finally, Ellen tugged on her mother’s apron, asking to see Flynn, and she sighed, pulling a key from her pocket.

“Alright,” she nodded, raising her head to look at Alfyn once more. “I accept your offer to help. My name is Marlene, and I’m so,  _ so _ grateful that you came along.” 

They shook hands. Therion was grateful that she didn’t seem to remember that he was there, too. 

“Aw, shucks, Marlene, it’s nothin’,” replied Alfyn, giving a small wave of his hand. “I’m just doin’ my job.”

“Yes, of course... Allow me to let us in.” 

She unlocked the door, and reached for the doorknob, pushing the door open.

“Ah, Therion, you may come in, too, if you wish,” Marlene said, looking back at him. “I’d hate to have you stand outside and wait.” 

Therion didn’t really care either way, so he nodded and followed Alfyn inside.

The house was modest, small and simple and old, but cozy. Therion was reminded quite a bit of his own childhood home, of all the scuffs in the floors and the cracks in the walls. 

He hadn’t any time to appreciate it, though. A small voice tried to call for her Mama, then quickly collapsed into a fit of brutal, body-shaking coughs. Alfyn and Marlene made a beeline towards the sound, and Therion and Ellen went in behind them. 

A girl almost perfectly identical in appearance to Ellen was laid on the second bed in a small room, curled on her side and hacking out coughs, and Marlene went over to rub her back, talking to her daughter in a soft voice. Alfyn placed himself on a stool by the bed, observing her coughing fit. Ellen went to sit on her own bed, looking uncomfortable. Therion supposed that he couldn’t blame her.

What was worse than the coughing itself, though, was the inhale that came after.

The sound was ghastly, unlike anything Therion had heard before, and he was horrified as the girl start coughing once more, just as fiercely as the first time. There had been barely any time for her to recover. She coughed so hard that tears leaked from her eyes, that saliva trickled down her chin, and then she pulled in a sharp breath that sounded as if it were being sucked in through a straw. 

It sounded like being strangled, and Therion knew well enough to know what  _ that _ felt like. 

“She’s been coughin’ like this since last night?” wondered Alfyn. He looked concerned but otherwise unruffled, surprisingly professional. 

“Y-yes...” Marlene said, reaching over to wipe the girl’s mouth with a cloth. Her coughing fit ceased, but only when her lips were turning blue. “Since about eight o’clock.”

“I see...” he hummed, tapping his knee. “... Now, I’m not from here, so I don’t know what’s been goin’ on recently, but have there been any other cases of whoopin’ cough in town before now?” 

Marlene thought about this for a minute, then shook her head. 

“Not that I know of... The only epidemic I can think of would be that fever that was going around.” 

“... Hmm...” 

Alfyn thought on this for a while, all while carefully examining the girl. 

“Hm... lymph nodes ain’t swollen. In other words, no sign of infection. Forehead ain’t warm, either. Far as I can tell, Flynn doesn’t seem to be  _ sick _ , necessarily.” 

“Doesn’t seem to be sick?” Marlene repeated, and Alfyn shook his head. 

“No... somethin’s off here. The onset is too fast.” 

Flynn started another coughing fit. She’d cough several times in a row, emptying her lungs, then squeeze in a strangled breath, noisy and painful. The wheezing, whooping gasps were uncomfortably loud in the small room, and Therion cringed. She’d been dealing with bouts of that since last  _ night _ ?

“She didn’t have a cough at all before this, huh?” asked Alfyn, and Marlene shook her head. 

“N-no, nothing at all. All she had was the fever and the fatigue.” 

“Okay... so this definitely ain’t sickness... or any regular whoopin’ cough.” 

“... How can you tell?” wondered Therion. This was the first time he had spoken once entering the room, and Alfyn looked up at him with something almost akin to a pleasant surprise. Was he happy that Therion was curious? 

“Well... normally, whoopin’ cough has a slower onset, usually ‘bout a week or so before symptoms actually start to appear,” Alfyn explained, and Therion could practically see him flipping through his notes in his mind. “And it doesn’t start like this right off the bat— the cough is way milder to start, kinda like what you’d expect from any other cold. It feels like a cold, too, since you’ll usually have a runny nose and a fever to go with that cough.”

“And Flynn didn’t have any of that,” Therion supposed, and Marlene shook her head. 

“No, aside from that fever. But, that was something different.” 

“... But even though she’s not sick, there’s a lot of other people in town with the same cough,” Therion said, and Alfyn’s head nearly whipped towards him. 

“S-sorry,  _ what _ ?” he said, incredulous, and Marlene looked over. 

“Oh, Therion, were you also among the crowd?” she asked, and Alfyn’s expression only became more confused. 

“There was a crowd?” he wondered, and both Therion and Marlene nodded.

“Yes,” she said, giving a sad smile. “All of the loved ones of the people sick with this affliction were flocking towards Vanessa in search of a cure.” 

“With this whoopin’ cough, huh...” Alfyn said. Flynn was coughing again. 

“... Seemed to be,” replied Therion, around Flynn’s ragged breaths. “She has a cure for it, but it’s too expensive for most people to buy.”

“A cure for—” Alfyn started, then cut himself off. “Uh oh, hang on a sec,” 

Before Therion could understand what was happening, Flynn had sat up and was weakly clawing for something, one hand fluttering over her stomach. Alfyn took a bucket from off of the floor and placed it under her head, and the girl threw up. 

“There ya go,” he said, softly, holding it until he was sure that she was done retching. “Coughin’ so hard you throw up... poor thing.” 

Flynn whispered out a hoarse “thank you”, and Marlene offered her a cup of water before taking the bucket from Alfyn. Therion cringed as the smell of bile wafted over, hiding deeper in his scarf.

“This has happened a couple of times already,” Marlene sighed. “All she’s been able to eat has been porridge.”

She then left to go wash the bucket out, and Alfyn sighed.  

“Porridge, and whatever medicine that Vanessa gave her...” he said, slowly. Therion swallowed. He had wanted to say that, wanted to bring it up, but...

“Hey, Flynn,” Alfyn said, and the girl looked towards him with hazy, exhausted eyes. “How’re ya feelin’?” 

“B-bad,” she replied, weakly. “I cough so much, and my chest hurts. My throat hurts. Everything hurts.”

“Your throat hurts?” he wondered, scratching his neck. “How long has your throat hurt for?” 

“Um... since last night,” she replied, and Therion could tell that he found that odd, too. 

“Not before then, huh?”

“N-no...”

Marlene came back in, and Alfyn turned his attention towards her.

“Marlene,” Alfyn said, and his tone sounded somewhat heavy. “Would you happen to still have the bottle, or the phial that the medicine came in?” 

Marlene shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the hem of her apron. “W-well... yes, but I’ve... already washed it out, I’m afraid.” 

Alfyn, patient as he was, didn’t seem bothered by that. “Hey, now, it’s all good. I wouldn’t blame ya— I’d do the same thing.” 

“Did she  _ say _ what she was going to give her?” asked Therion, and Marlene chewed her lip.

“Y-yes, sort of. She said that it was brewed from a sort of evergreen tree...” 

Evergreen? Therion and Alfyn glanced at each other. 

“... You’ve treated my fevers with white pine, haven’t you?” asked Therion, and Alfyn nodded. It wasn’t the revelation he had expected to see, though— evidently Alfyn wasn’t fully satisfied. 

“Yeah. It’s not as commonly used as flamesbane, since it’s a bit more aggressive, but the side effects here still don’t seem... right.”

Still, it was a possibility. Alfyn dug through his bag until he found the bottle of extract, then uncorked it. 

“This is white pine,” he said, towards Marlene. “It’s got a pretty distinct smell. Is this what she gave Flynn?” 

Therion, remembering the taste, made a face at the aroma. Marlene leaned in and gave a careful sniff of the bottle.

Alfyn and Therion practically held their breath as she considered it.

Then, she slowly shook her head.

“.... No, I don’t believe that’s it,” she replied, a bit sadly. “It was less pine-like, and more—” 

“Lemon!” Ellen supplied, and everyone looked towards her. 

“Lemon?” repeated Alfyn, and she nodded excitedly. 

“Yeah! It smelled a little like that, but with lemon!” 

“... Pine with lemon...” he murmured, corking the bottle. “Now... would that mean that she’s either mixed a lemongrass or lemon extract with pine, or...” 

Therion thought back to the circle of people around Vanessa, about the lies she had told them. 

“I overheard somebody say that... whatever this affliction is, it comes from the far south,” Therion supplied, and Alfyn frowned. 

“From the south? That’s... strange. Unless someone here’s traveled from the south and spread it that way...” he started, then shook his head. “But that still doesn’t make sense. Flynn caught this too quickly for it to be an illness of any kind, ‘specially one with symptoms like this.”

“... Are there any pine-like ingredients that can  _ cause  _ symptoms like this? Maybe ones from the south?” Therion prompted, and Alfyn let out a sigh.

“Pine or pine-like trees from the south...” he murmured, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “... The south doesn’t have a lot of pine varieties. Nor cedar, nor fir... hm...” 

“Evergreens in general?” 

“Mm... yeah, there should be some evergreens there. ‘Evergreen’ is a pretty broad term. Doesn’t just refer to conifers.” 

Alfyn thought on this, then frowned. 

“... Hold on. Therion, did she say  _ what _ the cure was made of? For this cough?” 

“... Moss, apparently,” Therion replied, shrugging. “Some kind of fancy cave moss. You know, one that supposedly only grows in one specific cave.” 

He doubted that  _ that _ part was true, but Alfyn’s eyes narrowed, sharpening at those words. Perhaps he had figured out the key? 

“....... You don’t say, huh?” Alfyn eventually said, reaching into his bag. 

“Might you have this cure on hand?” asked Marlene, clearly trying to keep the note of hope from her voice, and Alfyn sighed sadly. Apparently not.

“Ah, if it’s really what I’m thinkin’ of, then no...” Alfyn replied, pulling a worn book from the depths of his satchel.

Marlene let out a small, sad “I see”, and Alfyn opened the book. 

From where Therion was standing, he could see that the margins of the pages were packed with handwritten notes. Tips and reminders were snuck in, arrows and asterisks pointing out additional conditions and information. Certain words in the text were underlined, highlighted, circled. All in all, it looked  _ thoroughly _ used, and Therion was once again reminded that Alfyn, hick that he was, knew what he was talking about. 

“But...” Alfyn murmured, flipping through the pages. “Somethin’ about moss... That’s very interestin’.” 

“.... You’re not saying that this moss might be in a cave near  _ here _ , are you?” said Therion, and Alfyn breathed out something close to a laugh. 

“Now this is... just based off of a vague memory...” he ventured, still turning pages. “... But I seem to recall somethin’ like that, when we were studyin’ rare compounds. .... Hey, Marlene, are there any caves near here?” 

“Ah, well... y-yes, I do believe that there’s a couple.”

He came to a page that listed the plants of the Coastlands. It took him no time at all to locate the section on mosses. 

“Cave mosses, cave mosses...” he murmured, tracing his finger down the list. 

Therion glanced over at Marlene. Her eyes were pleading, hoping that Alfyn might have a lead from this. 

Flynn’s body was wracked with coughs once more.  

“Oh-hoh,” Alfyn eventually said, tapping his finger on one entry. “Glowworm moss, huh?” 

Therion looked over his shoulder to see what was written about it. To him, most of it was gibberish, but he could discern enough to get the gist of it. 

“Found in the Cave of Azure?” Therion murmured.

“Mhm...” hummed Alfyn, turning to look back at Marlene. “Hey, that’s close to here, isn’t it?” 

Her eyes widened. “W-why, yes, I do believe it is. It’s not a ten minute walk outside of town, as far as I know.” 

_ No fucking way. _

Alfyn’s eyebrows rose. “So this is probably what she’s makin’ the cure out of,” he said, tapping an illustration of a bright blue moss. “‘Glowworm moss is a perennial, bioluminescent cave moss that can be ground up to create a juice that soothes inflammation and swelling in the mucosa of the body’. In other words, it’s a potent anti-inflammatory component, and can open up the airways an’ throat to help a patient breathe, as well as soothe away irritant-based coughin’.” 

Therion glanced over at Marlene and found that she, too, didn’t really know  _ exactly _ what he had said, but they understood more or less that this would cure the coughing.

“‘Use of glowworm moss is not strictly discouraged, but due to the rarity and likelihood of empoisonment when combined with most common compounds, it is advised to avoid its use when possible. Glowworm moss, however, is considered to be the only cure for three specific conditions: ingestion of devil’s thorn, exposure to slime produced by black sapshrooms... and ingestion of Gaborran evergreen.’”

“Evergreen...” murmured Marlene, and her eyes went wide. “Gaborra? I know little of the world, but... Gaborra is a region far to the south, is it not?” 

“Yeah. It is,” replied Alfyn, who was already flipping the pages to find the section on Gaborra. 

“So... she’s not telling the whole truth,” Therion muttered, and Alfyn nodded. 

“She wasn’t lyin’ when she said the disease came from the south. Only problem is...” His finger stopped on the section on Gaborran Evergreen here. “... It ain’t a disease at all. The  _ component _ came from the south.” 

“... So, as far as I see it, she’s inducing these symptoms to sell this elixir...” Therion deduced, dryly. 

“... I can’t... I can't believe that anyone would so something so  _ awful _ ,” Marlene muttered, turning away. Her slender fists were clenched, shaking at her sides, and Ellen reached up to hug her. Mother took daughter in her arms, sitting on the bed with her, and Therion swallowed, looking away. 

“‘Gaborran evergreen: a flowering plant native to the tropical and subtropical regions of the continent of Gaborra known for its antipyretic qualities’,” Alfyn read out, tone flat. “‘A constituent compound has been known to cause inflammation and swelling of the throat, inducing severe coughing. The symptoms resemble those of the whooping cough known to plague the land whence it hails. ... Due to the risk of  _ severe  _ and  _ adverse _ reactions, use of Gaborra evergreen in any dosage is  _ strongly  _ discouraged.’” 

He blinked, then gave a small, dry laugh. “Huh. Turns out they’re closely related to lemon trees, which’re also considered evergreens. The extract crushed from their flowers smells like— guess what? Sawdust and lemons.” 

_ And the final piece of the puzzle falls into place. _

The three of them were silent for a moment, mouths held shut from the weight of this revelation. Vanessa noticed that the population was suffering from a wave of uncomplicated fevers, treated them for free... and then...

Flynn coughed, and coughed, and coughed.

Alfyn closed his book.

“... Flynn’s gonna end up with a cracked rib if this keeps up,” Alfyn said, and his voice was different. Heavy, quiet, tense. “Marlene, I’m headin’ out to find some a’ this moss. Give Flynn some honey tea, if she can keep it down. It won’t do much, but it’ll help a bit with the inflammation in the meantime.” 

With that, he put the book away and stood up. 

“A-are you... r-really going to go and get this moss...?” stammered Marlene, wide-eyed, and Alfyn nodded. 

“‘Course I am. I’m not... I can’t just sit around and  _ let this happen _ if I can do somethin' about it. So I’m gonna get that moss an’ brew up enough of this elixir to save the whole godsdamned  _ town _ , if I’ve gotta.” 

He said that, confident and bold like a hero in a play, and Therion didn't even doubt him.

“Alfyn!” Ellen said, almost squirming out of her mother’s arms in her excitement. “Alfyn! Are you gonna save Flynn?! Are you gonna save her?!” 

“... I’ll try my damnedest, Ellen,” he replied, unusually serious, and he turned to look at Flynn, at her sweat-soaked face. “Hey, Flynn, just hang tight for a lil’ bit longer, okay? By the time I come back, I should have somethin’ to stop that cough for good, okay?” 

“Th-thank you...” she replied, giving a weak wave with her tiny hand. “Thank you... Alfyn...” 

Therion didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t add anything on to this without ruining this moment, without making it seem like this was about  _ him  _ and not Alfyn’s bravery, his selfless choice to help despite the dangers, and he just followed him out of the room in silence, head down. 

They stepped outside, where the warm noon sun had tucked itself behind a cloud, bringing the temperature down a couple of degrees. Therion shivered underneath his shawl, but Alfyn seemed perfectly fine. In fact, if anything, he seemed incensed, emotional, alight, and Therion swallowed. He looked angry, he looked enraged, even, and that meant that he’d best keep his mouth shut, keep his distance— 

“About earlier,” Alfyn blurted out, and Therion braced himself, waited for the inevitable strike, the shouting that was sure to resume. “About yesterday, I mean.”

And heat flared back into Therion's cheeks, his pulse sped up, and he prepared for another argument, another insult, a backhanded remark. 

“What about it?” he asked, every cell in his body poised to fight, to flee.

Alfyn stopped walking. Therion did too.

“... I’m... I’m sorry,” Alfyn said, turning to look at him, and Therion made a small  _ wh- _ noise in response, stunned. Alfyn had tears in his eyes.

Did he really regret it so much that he would cry because of it?

“... You're... sorry?” repeated Therion, unsure what else to say. Nobody ever really apologized to him.... least of all  _ him  _ ( _ don't think about him, Therion, don’t think about him right now _ ). 

“Yeah. I’m so sorry that I almost said that to you. That you’re worth less than me because of your profession, or that you’d somehow know less than me, an’...  _ fuck, _ Therion, I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I don’t know where the hells that came from or why I thought it’d be okay, but...” 

Therion just stood there mutely, watching one of those tears well and fall out the corner of his eye, and Alfyn wiped it away almost immediately.

“I know I— I know it doesn’t make it right, but... I regretted it instantly, Therion, I really did. I was— I’m so scared that I ruined our friendship, y’know? I’m just scared that I broke somethin’.” 

Therion watched him wipe away another tear. His watery brown eyes were lowered from shame, fixed somewhere down and to his left, and the sight of loud, brash, sunny and cheerful Alfyn hunched into himself, gripping the strap of his bag, smiling crookedly and scrubbing his tears away... felt terrible, somehow, even though Therion had been  _ so _ fucking angry with him for hurting him like that.

And part of him wanted to still be angry. After all, it would be easier if he did. It would help, in the end, if he were. 

_ Therion, _ his mother’s voice called, floating from his distant memory.  _ You don’t have to forgive every mistake that people make. Sometimes people hurt you so badly that they cannot be forgiven.  _

_ But, please remember... despite that, you’re still allowed to forgive people. _

He was still sore from it. Chances are, it would still sting for a while. 

But, nobody had ever cried over hurting him before. Nobody had ever regretted upsetting him to the point of holding back tears, desperately trying to stop himself from breaking down and sobbing in the middle of the street.

_ He _ never did. 

So Therion sighed. He inhaled, exhaled, let his rage slip away. It didn’t matter. Knowing Alfyn, if he wanted him to repent further, to ask for him to kneel and press his head to the pavers, to beg for mercy at his feet, he probably would. 

And gods, that genuine sweetness within him was going to hurt him horribly one day. 

“...It’s... okay,” Therion eventually replied, because it was all he could come up with. He had no clue what else one could possibly say, when the other person was practically bleeding remorse, was on the verge of sobbing from the weight of his mistake.

_ He really cares this much? _

“I-is it?” Alfyn asked, looking back up at him, and Therion nodded, embarrassed. His gaze was normally difficult to handle, but it was infinitely harder to look him in the eye when they were watery, filled with pain, with hope, with excitement, even, and Therion couldn’t do it. His focus shifted elsewhere, onto the clay tiles of the roofs and the gulls wheeling in the breeze, the sound of a town carrying on its day around them.

Coughing through open windows, murmurs of people trying to figure out a cure.

“.... It’s fine. Stop moping.”

His words weren’t exactly gentle, but they were honest. Alfyn, thankfully, seemed to understand. He nodded, let out a breath, and his posture loosened up. Therion realized exactly how much tension he had been harbouring within himself until that moment, and he almost felt bad, somehow, despite the fact that Alfyn himself was equally to blame. 

But, whatever. Now wasn’t the time to think about that.

“Alright. I’ll stop,” Alfyn replied, shooting him a crooked smile, and he reached in his bag to rummage for his map. “So, I’m gonna head off to the Caves of Azure, apparently. Accordin’ to Marlene, it’s not that far outta town, so it shouldn’t take too long for me to run in n’ come back out with some moss.”

“... And... you’re doing that alone?” Therion asked, and Alfyn’s hand stilled its search. 

“I... ah... y-yeah?” he stammered, caught off-guard. “I mean, what, are ya sayin’ that you wanna come along?” 

_ I don’t know about  _ **_want_ ** _ , but it’s pretty fucking stupid to waltz on in to unknown caves by yourself. _

Therion didn’t reply right away. He simply reached under his shawl and pulled out Alfyn’s map, unfolding it as if it had always been there.

“Wh— H-hey, now, when didja take  _ that _ ?” laughed Alfyn, moving next to Therion to see. “ _ Shit _ , you’re good at that.” 

_ You  _ **_did_ ** _ give me permission to look through your stuff, dumbass. _ “... Hmph.” 

He opened up the map. Alfyn reached over and poked over Goldshore with his fingertip. 

“So we’re here, and by the looks of it... Ah, here we go,” he said, tracing towards the east. “Caves of Azure. An’ if my old book is still up-to-date, I should find myself some a this glowworm moss in there.” 

_ That settles it, then. _

“... Got everything you need?” Therion asked, and Alfyn patted his pockets, his bag, nodded.

“Seems like it.”

And Therion  _ should _ have nodded, waved, said  _ See you later, then _ , and left for the tavern, or the inn, or even left Goldshore and continued on, like he was  _ supposed to _ , but he didn’t. 

Instead, he nodded, folded the map back up and stowed it away. “... Then let’s get going.” 

He shouldn’t have said that. Like before, he knew well enough that he shouldn’t get involved, that he had done enough, that he had played his part and helped to solve the puzzle. 

But Flynn’s wheezing, whooping breaths chased him, her wracking coughs and the spit flecking her chin haunted him, and it left him guilty, somehow, as if he had no business to kick his heels up and drink while Alfyn went  _ this _ far out of his way to help. 

It just didn’t sit that well with him, thief or not.

“‘Let’s’?” repeated Alfyn, wide-eyed. “Therion, d’you actually wanna come along with me?” 

And he didn’t, really, he didn’t  _ want to _ , of course, because that wasn’t  _ him _ , that wasn’t what he  _ did _ , that wasn’t something that a  _ thief _ would do, especially not for  _ free _ , for Aeber’s sake, and yet... 

What reason  _ was _ there, for him to go? 

What reason was there for him to  _ not _ want to go?

“... Don’t waste your time thinking about it,” Therion muttered, both to Alfyn and to himself. “Let’s go. We’re wasting daylight.” 

Though he tried to turn away quickly, tried to keep his eyes away, he still caught a glimpse of Alfyn's expression, of the genuine surprise etched into his eyes, and he hastened his pace, pretending he hadn't seen it.  _ Can't back out now. _

“Y— Hey, c’mon, you don’t have to,” Alfyn said, and Therion heard the little hopping scuff of shoes from someone bounding to catch up. “Like, you can if you want, but—” 

“Shut up,” Therion replied, but it lacked the usual sting. “Let’s just find this moss and go.” 

“Gotcha,” 

Alfyn, thankfully, was quiet for a bit after that, save for— as usual— greeting everyone they passed. It seemed that no matter where they went, he was incapable of walking by other people in silence.

They exited the town via the east by crossing a bridge (low bridges, thankfully, didn’t bother Therion, so he didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of Alfyn seeing  _ that _ side of him) and they followed a thin trail down to the shoreside, where rocky outcroppings formed the maw of a cave. 

“Guess this is the place, huh?” said Alfyn, scratching his head. “Can’t really imagine that there’s some other cave along here, too.” 

“.... Let’s find out,” Therion shrugged, stepping inside. 

“H-hey, hold on, wait for me,” Alfyn said hustling to stay near him. Therion rolled his eyes.

The air inside the cave was cool and damp, humid enough to almost feel liquid. It smelled heavily of the sea and of something that vaguely reminded Therion of the floor of the Woodlands, pungent and green, like... 

_Well, like moss, I guess..._

As they delved deeper into the cave, it started to get darker, and just as Alfyn muttered something about light, Therion snapped his fingers and produced a handful of fire. The light it produced was just enough to illuminate the cave around them, revealing something that looked a bit like a path.

“Thanks, buddy,” Alfyn grinned, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “That fire magic sure comes in handy, huh? It’s nice to know someone who can do that.” 

Therion scoffed, shaking away the embers that his compliments set alight. “... Cyrus knows more about it than I do.” 

“Uh-huh, that might be true,” Alfyn agreed, and Therion could, as usual,  _ hear _ the cheeky smile in his voice. “But is Cyrus here right now?” 

_.... Bastard. _ Therion snorted and kept walking. Alfyn just giggled behind him, unruffled by his irritation.

The two of them ventured further into the cave, careful not to step on spots that looked too slippery, and they noticed that, as they walked, the walls steadily seemed to turn bluer somehow, brighter. 

He thought it to be his imagination at first, brought on by the sheer darkness of the cave, but he soon realized that it wasn’t— Alfyn made a small noise of enthusiasm, of relief that they were actually in the right place, and Therion couldn't help but to feel the same. The fact that this mystical rare moss existed in the first place... was already a huge first step.

They continued, and the spots grew more plentiful. Therion wasn’t really one to admire things often, but even he could appreciate the flecks of colour, of cerulean pinpricks spackled over the ceiling and walls, curling around the stalactites like stars. His fire dimmed, distracted by the sight, and when it died, the moss seemed to glow only brighter. 

“Wow,” Alfyn breathed, and he sounded  _ very _ close to Therion. “Bioluminescence sure is amazin’, huh? It’s reactin’ to the light from your fire.” 

Therion glanced up at him, at the vague blue outline of his head, and he seemed to quickly step back, as if he had only just realized how deeply within his personal space he had crossed. 

But, he didn’t disagree with what Alfyn had said. He had never seen anything quite like it before, and wasn't sure if he ever would again. 

“These ones are too small to harvest, though,” Alfyn said, grazing his fingers over a nearby tuft. “Looks like it gets brighter towards the end of the cave, so I’m gonna go take a look.” 

_ And what, I’m not?  _ “Mhm.”

Therion relit his fire and they continued along, venturing deeper into the cave. Like Alfyn said, the glow only seemed to get more intense as they went, bright enough to nearly render his flames unnecessary. 

The two of them eventually reached a large room of sorts, with high ceilings and plant growth spilling out the crag walls, dripping from the stalagtites. A split in the ceiling let a strip of golden sunlight slice through the darkness, and the moss in the shadows glowed so intensely that Therion dismissed the fire. 

“Ooohh,” Alfyn exhaled, looking around with wide, bright eyes, and Therion supposed that he really couldn’t blame him. The sight was almost surreal, vibrantly and beautifully dreamlike, and he was, for a moment, kind of thankful that he decided to come along. 

They stepped into the chamber, with Therion sticking to the darkest shadows. The sunlight cut across Alfyn as he moved to the middle of the cave, throwing half of his body in gold and the other in azure, and he stood there, hands on hips, observing the room at large. 

“Right, okay...” he said, mostly to himself. “So I’ll need enough glowworm moss to cure an epidemic. A  _ man-made _ epidemic, but regardless,” he added, a bit sarcastically, and his expression became a bit sharper. “... Who the fuck  _ does _ that, anyways? What kinda person does she think she is?” 

“Alfyn,” Therion said, cutting him off before he got too incensed, before he got enraged and Therion’s blood painted the moss red ( _ would he do that, would he take it out on me? _ ). “Flynn needs medicine.” 

His anger sparked, snapped, but extinguished at Therion’s voice, cooled into coals. He let out a breath. Now wasn’t the time to get furious. Now was the time to pick the moss, to take it back to Marlene’s and brew up enough of this cure to untangle the mess that Vanessa wrought upon this town, and then... 

Then what? 

What would he do after that?

What would they do with  _ her _ ?

“Oh?” a new voice called, and both Therion and Alfyn whipped around, finding the outline of a woman there. “You sniffed out my supply, did you?”

_ Speak of a demon, and it shall appear... _ thought Therion, melting further into the darkness. She didn’t seem to notice that he was there.

“Vanessa,” Alfyn said, low and growled out, and Therion noticed the instant shift in his demeanour, the righteous fury turning his knuckles white.  _ Uh oh. _

“Alfyn, was it?” she replied, dry as bone, as if she had somehow anticipated that this might happen. “Whatever might you be doing here? It’s terribly dangerous to venture so deep into a cave alone.” 

Alfyn, though his posture was tense, cracked a sarcastic grin. “... I could say the same for you, ya know. What in the world are  _ you  _ doin’ in here, huh? Seems there's an awful lotta people out there that're sick. I’d think that they might be needin’ some medicine right about now.” 

“They do,” Vanessa replied, coolly. “I’m here to replenish my supply. There seems to be an epidemic going around, after all.” 

“Yeah, isn’t that funny?” Alfyn replied, smile dropping instantly. “Amazin’ that one can create a  _ man-made _ epidemic with the help of a bit of Gaborran evergreen, huh?”

Her eyebrows shot up, and she giggled. “Oh, so you figured it out? That’s impressive. You’re nowhere near as stupid as you look.” 

Alfyn didn’t take the bait. He just breathed out a short, scornful chuckle, shaking his head from disgust. “... You don’t even deny it, huh.” 

“No, I really don’t see the need to,” Vanessa shrugged, flashing a cold smile. “Why should I? You figured it out. Congratulations. Life is hard, people die, and I can save them... for a price.”

“For a price? Whatever happened to helpin’ people for free?”

“Unlike you, I don’t operate that way for everything I do. The first step is free,” she replied, placidly. “I give them the first dose for free, and it cures them.” 

Alfyn barked out a laugh, sharp and sarcastic. “Yeah! It sure does, until they end up almost suffocatin’ to death from the whoopin’ cough.” 

“And how unfortunate it is, that my most effective antipyretic is so irritating to the throat... It really is too bad that the cure is so rare. I’d charge less for it if it weren’t.” 

“Doesn’t it bother you? That some people out there might die from this? All because they can’t scrape up enough leaves to pay you?” 

“Well, some people  _ can  _ afford to pay, so I’ll gladly help them. It’s supply and demand, Alfyn, and what’s wrong with that? It’s better than leaving them  _ all  _ to die, I think.” 

“You...” he snarled, hands shaking. “Y-you stone-cold, conniving  _ bitch _ , Vanessa, what the  _ fuck _ is wrong with you?!” 

“I should ask the same thing!” she shot back, taking a step closer, into the band of light. “What kind of moron does this work for free? What kind of simple-minded  _ fool  _ pours all those years of training into  _ this _ ? Helping people for free, out of... what, the goodness of his heart? Some fairytale shit like  _ that _ ?” 

“What kind of—” 

“What do people  _ know  _ about this craft, Alfyn?” she continued, merciless, planting a hand on her hip. “What do the common folk know of cures, concoctions, illnesses? Hmm?”

Alfyn was silent for a moment, reeling with anger, and she carried on. 

“ _ Nothing _ , that’s what. People know so little about this craft that I could sell them mud, Alfyn, I could sell them water dyed green with lichens and they’d drink it and tell me they’ve been saved. People know  _ nothing _ about medicine, and that’s exactly why I’ve managed to make a name for myself. I’ve made more money than you could ever dream about, and that’s what makes it all worth it.”

“Children are  _ dying _ , Vanessa!” he barked back, his voice echoing through the cave, and Therion saw it. The poison in her eyes, the cold shine of her teeth as she smiled. 

The glint of steel in the shadows behind her.

“Alfyn,” she said, softly, sweetly, cruelly. “If they can’t pay for my services, I really could not possibly care less.” 

The metal behind her flashed.

Therion sprinted out of the darkness and drew his dagger, throwing it at the man hiding behind her before anyone could react. Vanessa gasped, stepping aside, and the blade of the dagger lodged firmly in the man’s throat, deep into his trachea and his carotid, and Therion yanked it out with a bright red spray. He was already on the next man when he heard a yell from Alfyn, and he risked a glance over to see him flinching, an arm brought up over his eyes.

While Alfyn was blinded, Therion could see Vanessa reaching for something in her bag, something metallic and shiny and  _ oh gods, was she going to stab him??? _

His feet were in motion long before his brain was. Therion sprinted up behind her, aiming for her neck, but she spun on her heel and slammed her knife into his, deflecting it. Alfyn heard the commotion and stepped back a few paces, still with his arm over his eyes. 

“Was it you?” she asked, twirling her knife in her palm. “Were you the rat that helped this simpleton figure out my scheme?” 

The notes upon notes in his encyclopedia came back to him, the speed at which he found the correct pages and sections, the crystal-clear pronunciation of every last word, as if he’d read it a thousand times over, and Therion shook his head, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his weapon.

“... He’s no simpleton,” Therion hissed. “He’s probably smarter than you.” 

He rushed her again, dagger brandished, and she dodged his arm, shoving him over towards Alfyn. Therion allowed himself to stagger over his way, nearly colliding with him.

“What did she do to you?” he asked, towards Alfyn, and he hissed from pain, forcing himself to lower his arm. His eyes were watering, but looked fine otherwise. 

“I’m good, don’t worry about me. Just injurious dust.” 

“Injurious dust doesn’t have to be mixed with anything to hurt someone’s eyes,” Vanessa shrugged, smiling faintly. “Truth be told, aside from the moss, I’ve been running low on a lot of my supplies, thanks to the...  _ ample _ business here. So, I can’t say that I’m in the mood to waste all of my materials on someone who’s about to die.” 

“Yeah, I’d imagine it’d be pretty fucking  _ embarrassing  _ to waste all your materials on yourself,” snarled Therion, dashing towards her. 

“Therion, be careful!” Alfyn shouted, and it sounded like he was trying to find something. “Hold her off, okay? Don’t kill her!” 

“What?  _ Don’t  _ kill her?” Therion demanded, parrying and catching her arm. “Why the hells not?!” 

“Just... just hang on!!” Alfyn called back, digging more vigorously. He seemed to be looking for something he could use. “I’ve got somethin’ better, okay, so just incapacitate her or somethin’!”

_ Something better _ ?? Therion had no clue what  _ that _ meant, but he didn’t have time to question it— Vanessa wasn’t going to surrender just because her knife hand was trapped.

“Stay still, you little rat!” she snapped, winding up for a punch. “This is all  _ your fault _ !  _ You _ were the one who told him, huh?!” 

Therion grabbed her fist and used her momentum to twist her around, locking her arms behind her back. Her knife fell and clattered to the floor. He knew to keep his head out of the way, to avoid the furious kicks that she tried to deliver to his shins, and she wriggled like a fish caught on a line, howling angrily all the while. 

“Sh-should have invested... in better sellswords,” Therion growled, tightening his hold on her arms. “Those guys... weren’t prepared at all.”

“Get your filthy fucking hands  _ off  _ of me!!” 

Her thrashing intensified. Therion was a bit taller than her, but not by much, so holding her in place was proving to be more difficult than he’d have like it to be.

“Alfyn!!” Therion snapped, adjusting his grip. Vanessa’s heel caught him in the shin and he swore loudly, kicking her firmly in the back of the leg in retaliation. 

“ _ Fuck _ you, you disgusting whoreson  _ thief _ !!” 

_ Charming.  _ “Gods, you’re a mouthy bitch,”

“Just a second!!” Alfyn shouted back, and Therion glanced over. Alfyn was no longer looking, and he now had a corked vial in one hand and was pulling a thick leather glove on the other. Obviously whatever the vial contained was volatile somehow. 

And, admittedly, while Therion had been the one in the first place that was planning on killing her, the fact that he didn’t  _ know _ what Alfyn was going to do to her unsettled him slightly. 

“Okay, I’m good. Hold her there for a moment longer.” 

“Wh-what the fuck are you going to do to me?!” she snarled, whipping her head towards him, thrashing in Therion’s hold. “Kill me?!” 

“Kill ya?” Alfyn repeated, uncorking the vial. “Nah, I don’t think so. Haven’t killed anyone yet, and I don’t ever plan on it.” 

“Then what the fuck are you—” she started, then stopped cold upon seeing him tip a small, thorned twig into his glove. 

“Ahh,” Alfyn drawled, giving a vague, humourless smile. “So you  _ do _ recognize this.” 

“Where in the  _ hells _ did you even  _ get  _ slumberthorn?!” she almost screamed, aghast, and Therion felt something close to relief. He didn’t care about her, really, but he was relieved nonetheless that Alfyn wasn’t going to give her a horrible, agonizing death via poison, or torture, or some other method extracted from a secret sadistic streak within him.

Well, as far as he knew, anyways. Slumberthorn, by its name alone, didn’t  _ sound _ lethal. 

“Oh, my ol’ teacher brought it back from Grandport for us. Said he hoped that we wouldn’t need it. An’, y’know, I kinda hoped I wouldn’t either.” 

Then, just then, he caught Therion’s gaze, his expression, and his eyes softened. 

“Don’t worry... this won’t hurt her,” he soothed, voice completely different than it was a moment ago. “Yes, slumberthorn can be fatal, but I’m only going to use a small dosage.” 

“One thorn’s worth is enough to knock someone out for a day,” Vanessa explained, bitterly. “Who’s to say that you aren’t going to roll that whole stick over my skin?” 

Alfyn didn’t even smile. “Well, unlike you, I tend to tell the entirety of the truth to my patients before treatin’ ‘em.”

With that, he carefully stuck her arm with one of the thorns, then put the slumberthorn away. 

Therion was astounded at how quickly she went limp. Not fifteen seconds passed before her thrashing ceased, her yelling softened to a toneless moan, and her knees buckled. Therion, still holding her arms, let her fall into an ungraceful heap on the floor. 

“... What... are you going to do to her?” Therion asked, staring down at her body. He highly doubted that he would just  _ leave  _ her in here, but he still had to ask.

“Oh, I’ll probably turn her over to the guards or somethin’,” Alfyn shrugged. “I mean, if it weren’t for you helpin’ me solve this, half the damn town might’ve ended up dead because of her. She’ll probably end up wakin’ up on a cell floor in about twelve hours, because of that.” 

_ And even though it was you who deduced what she poisoned them with, or what the cure is, and knows how to make it in the first place... you still try to credit me first? _

It felt strange. Not bad, per se, but it should have, and it bothered him.

“In the meantime, though, I’m gonna pick as much moss as I’ll need to cure half a town. You can pick some too, or just kinda hang out while I’m doin’ that.” 

Therion shrugged, mumbled out a “ _ sure” _ , and Alfyn shot him a tired smile before turning away to harvest the moss. He pulled handfuls of it from the walls, setting it all within his bag, just like that. 

Therion, meanwhile, looked back down at Vanessa, at the satchel lying at her side. 

He also remembered the money from earlier, and he discretely took every single purse stashed in there and hid them in his pockets.  _ A sociopath like you doesn’t deserve any of these leaves. _

Aside from that, there wasn’t much of interest within her satchel to him, personally. And, even out of the things that  _ looked _ trustworthy, like blue salve and basic herbs, he wasn’t entirely sure just how many  _ other  _ things in here were tainted, or would only end up doing more harm than good, so he left them.

Once Alfyn had gathered enough moss, he went over to examine the bodies of the sellswords. They were both dead via blood loss, and Therion braced himself for the judging stare, the scolding for having killed them, too. Mercifully, however, he didn’t. He simply confirmed their deaths and turned his attention back towards Vanessa. 

He stood over her for a moment, thinking, then reached down and lifted her up. To Therion’s amusement, he simply slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and walked off with her that way. Therion relit his fire magic and picked his way back through the cave with him, leaving the blue glow of the moss behind.

“... You... didn’t carry me to Flamesgrace like that, did you?” Therion wondered, unsure what answer he was expecting to hear.

“Nah, I couldn’t,” Alfyn replied, laughing. “It might’ve been easier, but your ribs were still broken, so I wasn’t gonna do that to ya. Had to carry you like a lady, heh. Sorry.” 

Something about what Alfyn said very nearly made Therion laugh, seeing as to how he apparently didn’t consider Vanessa as enough of a lady to warrant carrying her nicely, but he held it back, waited until the feeling passed. 

Still, though, that was a lot of hard work, Therion realized. Carrying someone bridal-style took a lot of energy. 

Up a mountain, too. In snow. For six hours, at the least. 

Sure, H’aanit helped. Sure, they stopped plenty of times to rest. 

But they didn’t  _ have _ to.

Alfyn, at the very least, didn’t have to.

None of them.... really...  _ had  _ to.

Yet, they did.

They exited the cave. It was late afternoon by then, and the light was a beautiful shade of gold, making the beach sparkle wonderfully under the waves. Therion followed Alfyn up to the town, where he then had to explain the situation to the guards (as well as mention the bodies left behind in the cave), and Vanessa was passed off to be placed in custody. 

With that taken care of, Alfyn wiped his forehead and bumped Therion gently on the shoulder with his fist.

“Fuck, man, thank you so much for all’ve your help,” he breathed, shooting him the first genuine smile he’d seen all day, and Therion looked away, embarrassed. “If it weren’t for you tellin’ me about Flynn, we wouldn’t have been able to do this. So thank you, Therion. I’m so grateful.” 

“It’s... it’s fine,” Therion replied, a bit awkwardly, unable to say anything more than that. “Don’t think about it.” 

“Ah, no, I’ll be thinkin’ about it,” Alfyn laughed. “I’ll... probably be thinkin’ about this for a while. I mean, you also went in with me, an’ if you didn’t.....”

He trailed off, and Therion knew what he meant. If he hadn’t gone with him...

Then what? Once he knew his fate, or once he hadn't seen him come back to their inn room, or once the others asked about him, what would he do? Would he have gone into the cave to find his body? Would he have dragged it out and burned it, or buried it at the edge of the woods? Would he have had to scrawl out a letter to Clearbrook, tell his beloved Zeph that Alfyn wasn't coming come, that he was dead, that he was gutted in a cave by a con artist's henchmen and left to rot, all for just trying to do the right thing? Would he do that for him, for the person so strangely hellbent on making his miserable life a little bit less lonely?

Would he?

“... It would have been stupid for you to go alone,” Therion replied, deflecting his gratitude, because it was  _ true. _ If Alfyn had gone in alone, it was more than likely that he wouldn't have ended up coming back out of his own accord. “So of course I had to go with you.”

“Well, like I said with that nice thing you did with my coinpurse. I don't really care much about what your intentions are, honestly. You just do things, and I appreciate ‘em. So thank you. Again, heheh.”

“... It's fine,” he muttered, fidgeting with his bangle. If one were to ask Therion, Alfyn still did most of the work.

“Good. Now I'm gonna take this moss over to Flynn, n’ then I'll be brewin’ up enough a this tonic to cure everyone who needs it.”

“For free, huh?” 

Alfyn flashed him a grin. “Hey, you're startin’ to get it. But anyways, go get a drink or somethin’. You deserve it.”

That actually sounded like a fantastic idea. Therion was wiped from holding her back, and his stomach was starting to ache from hunger.

“I’ll see ya later, okay?” Alfyn continued, giving a friendly wave. “I dunno how long I'll be doin’ this for, but I probably won't be back until late. You don't have to wait up for me.”  

Therion was about to tell him that he wasn’t going to wait up anyways, but he held his tongue. Somehow, after seeing him upset earlier, he didn’t really have the heart to press against the wounds so soon after stitching them shut.

So, instead, he just mumbled out a “See you...”, and Alfyn’s smile became brighter, somehow, before he turned away to head back towards Marlene’s house, medicine in tow. Therion watched his figure go, watched the outline of those stupid little tufts of hair melt into a vaguely spiky shape, and he turned the corner and vanished. 

What he had mentioned about a drink sounded so,  _ so _ appealing right then, and Therion dragged himself over towards the tavern on leaden feet. Judging by what he could see through the windows, it was somewhat busy in there, with most of the patrons being sailors and fishermen. 

He pushed the door open, and nobody really paid him much mind. Everyone was too busy talking and eating to notice him, which suited him well. Thieves were supposed to be like shadows, after all. 

_ He  _ really had... taught him well.

_ Ah, fuck, don’t do this... _ he thought, as he ordered the local special. The drink turned out to be stout, which he had never tried before, and while the colour was off-putting, he decided that it wasn’t bad.

The rest of the special was a buttery baked fish with lemon, and while Therion wasn’t normally a huge fan of fish, this particular dish was particularly nice, somehow. Perhaps ocean fish had a better flavour from being marinated in salt all day...?

But, even though his meal was good, he was distracted. As he chewed, his gaze turned to the windows, at the light cast off of the lanterns outside, at the colours of an evening sky. The sunset over the ocean was shockingly beautiful, he realized, and he couldn’t help but to watch, sipping his stout all the while.

He knew the consequences of watching, but he did anyways.

He drank, and the sun dipped over the horizon, disappearing behind the ocean with a cascade of gold, of pinks and violets and indigo to follow it, and his mind wandered once more. 

At first, it wasn’t too bad. Introspection never really  _ started _ bad, really, and he knew full well where it usually ended up leading, what kinds of paths he’d tumble down, but he didn’t have the mental capacity to intervene. The stout was strong, and it started to cloud his thoughts. He was worn out from the day, tired from the fight, hollow from the adrenaline he always got whenever he had to kill someone, weary from the constant stress of having to keep his bangle hidden, and confused from Alfyn’s tears, his apologies.

Oh, and hurt. Though he had forgiven him, he was still a bit hurt from his words, still bruised from the implications.

He didn’t know if this was something that a salve would cure. 

He drank in silence. The banter and chatter around him morphed into static, into a background haze, and he began to feel weird, disconnected, floaty. The events from the day weighed down on him, made his brain into lead, and he hated the feeling, hated the confusion. 

Everything was fine now. He was right all along, he proved his point, and, as a bonus, he went and saved the day for half the residents of the town. 

_ Throw a parade in our fucking honour, _ he thought, tipping back another mouthful. 

Alfyn’s parting words stuck with him even then, his gentle, sheepish mention of his gratitude that Therion had come with him into the cave, that he had singlehandedly saved Alfyn’s life, and he didn’t know what to feel. Irritation? Sadness? Anger? 

... Relief?

He knew that it couldn’t have been the last one, shouldn’t have been the last one. He couldn’t feel relief over someone he didn’t care about. 

Because he didn’t care. Of course he didn’t care about Alfyn.

So why did it leave him with a strange, sick feeling inside if he considered the alternative? The scenario where he didn’t go in, where he had given in to his selfish desire to end up here earlier, relaxing in the tavern with a drink and his hand in someone’s pocket, lifting their valuables and disappearing, fleeing the town without ever learning of Alfyn’s fate? 

What if that had happened? What if he had left then, packed up his belongings and disappeared, all while Alfyn was bleeding out in the cave, weakly crying for help that would never come?

What if he was the last person Alfyn thought of before he died? 

_ No, no, don’t think about that _ . Therion shook his head, dispelling the thoughts, and drank back the rest of his mug. It didn’t happen. Alfyn was fine, probably combing the town and handing out phials of the medicine by now, and Therion felt worse, somehow, in a new way. 

All of this proved that Alfyn was, quite simply, a good person. 

Therion knew well enough by now that he wouldn’t charge any of these people for the medicine. He wouldn’t make them offer up anything as compensation, wouldn’t barter any of their belongings to give them back the ability to breathe, and Therion didn’t understand. He wouldn’t really want to either, of course, especially since this shouldn’t have happened to them in the first place, and yet... 

Why was he so genuinely good of a person?

And, more importantly, why would a person that openly and obviously  _ good _ , that caring and gentle and generous... want to associate with someone like him?

_ With a fucking thief like me? _

He shouldn’t go down that route, he knew. He shouldn’t think about that, he shouldn’t make things worse for himself. His mind was already fragile, already muddled with stout and smouldering with bad memories, illuminated once more by the orange evening light, and he couldn’t take it. Though he knew that he wouldn’t sleep, he had to go to bed, had to lie down and pretend that everything was okay.

Like every other night. 

Therion drained his mug and put his coins on the table, leaving the tavern and breathing in a deep, hard lungful of the salty air. It was well and truly night by then, and he was surprised. How long had he been thinking for? 

Though, he also knew that it was best not to consider how much of his life was spent wasting away, thinking about all of the things that tore his wounds open once again.

He made his way back to the inn in a stupor, not tipsy enough to be impaired but enough to be depressed, enough to want to be alone, enough to want nothing but silence, stillness,  _ safety _ , and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know where to look for that, and it frustrated him. 

It was more than that. It didn’t just frustrate him— he  _ hated  _ it. He hated that whenever he got like this, whenever he drank alone and watched a sunset, looked at the colours, he ended up in this state— thinking of the colour green, remembering the weightlessness of the fall, reliving the murk of all of his lonely days, all the miserable mornings waking up alone, all of the beautiful, perfect sunsets stretching over his head, all of them forever stained with his blood, his tears, floating above his head like a halo. 

The sad part was that he used to like sunsets, once upon a time. 

This particular inn locked its doors at night to keep out the rowdier of the sailors, and Therion dug through his pockets to find the key. The lock clicked as he turned it, and he slipped inside the inn without a sound. 

Judging by the lamplight bleeding beneath the doors, Cyrus was still awake (not surprising), and Ophilia and H’aanit were asleep (also not surprising). Alfyn, however, appeared to be back, if the light under the door was any indicator, and Therion opened it (the unlocked door was also, to Therion’s irritation, not surprising). 

Alfyn looked up at the sound, and it looked as if he was in the middle of getting ready for bed— he was partially undressed, and he was combing his hair out, tie in his mouth.

“Oh!” Alfyn called, plucking the tie from his teeth. “Hey! How’re you doin’, buddy?” 

“... Tired,” was all Therion could think of to reply with. It wasn’t entirely a lie. He was very,  _ very _ tired. However, despite that exhaustion, despite his desire to crawl into bed and sleep for a week... he was also bursting with a restless energy, alight and itchy with the desire to  _ go _ , and he didn’t know what to do. 

He didn’t know what to do.

“Aw, yeah, I can imagine,” Alfyn agreed, yawning. Therion yawned, too, at the sight, muffling it in his scarf. “Today’s been a reaaaal long day... I can’t wait to hit the sack.” 

_ Me neither _ , thought Therion, but another, second voice disagreed, whispered  _ don’t, Therion _ , and he didn’t know how to interpret it.

He didn’t know what to do.

Alfyn didn’t seem aware of his internal conflict, and contentedly relayed all of what he’d been up to to him as they got ready for bed. He told him about Flynn ( _ It worked amazingly on her, Therion, like you wouldn’t even believe what a difference it made _ ), about Marlene ( _ Gods, she just burst into tears right then an’ there, and though it was kinda embarrassing, I’m still happy that she can sleep easy now that Flynn’s feelin’ better _ ), about the townsfolk ( _ I carried the pot and Marlene helped me out by knockin’ on the doors and dosin’ it out in vials. I’m pretty sure we’ve gotten everyone, but I have extra, just in case I missed someone _ ). Therion listened to all of it, without interrupting or telling him to shut up, and it worried him that he didn’t hate the background chatter anymore. 

It was... starting to become normal.

Memories of falling came back, and he recoiled as he remembered green, as he remembered trust, in the beginning, before he was kissed, distracted, stabbed, gouged, pushed,  _ falling _ ... 

He was in bed, all of a sudden, and he didn’t recall lying down. 

“G’night, Therion,” Alfyn said, reaching to shut the lamp off. “I’ll see ya in the mornin’.” 

“... ‘Night,” Therion replied, and his throat felt dry. He couldn't bring himself to lie to him. Not like this, not after... 

Alfyn settled in deeper into his blankets, closing his tired eyes, and he drifted off to sleep before long.

On his own bed, Therion was wide awake, thinking, waiting. 

He could sleep. Most of him wanted to sleep, really. The day had been long, and he was worn out from the fight, exhausted from the emotional toll that helping to cure half a town had brought him. He could fall asleep after having prayed to the gods that he’d be spared from nightmares, tumble into his usual restless sleep, toss and turn all night if he didn’t wake up screaming, and he’d be  _ fine _ . 

He’d be fine, because he was  _ Therion _ and he was  _ always _ fine. 

He had been okay for all this time, after all. Even after  _ he  _ threw him away, even after  _ he  _ tried to kill him, he had been  _ fine _ , because he  _ had  _ to be, and anything less was pathetic. 

Anything less would hurt him.

Anything less would kill him for good this time.

So it should have been logical. It only made sense that he had to run. 

Therion thought of it, and he felt every cell in his body itching, vibrating under some kind of unknown emotion, and he hated it. He hated that he felt like this, whatever  _ this _ was, and he ignored it, focused on the panic bubbling within him, and his thoughts latched on to leaving, to running, to  _ fleeing. _

Wasn’t that what he had wanted, this entire time?

Therion lay there for a while longer, silent, perfectly still. 

He really could leave this time. He could. He could do it. 

His eyes flicked back over towards Alfyn, listening. Deep breathing, steady and even.

He could do it. He could do it. 

He really, truly could do it this time.

_ Just fucking do it, idiot. _

His body was leaden, his head felt disconnected, but he reached up with wooden fingers to peel the blankets back and get out of bed. He could do it, this time. He could.

His motions were numb, almost mechanical. Therion dressed himself in a silence that felt oppressive. He trembled all over, like a child trying to sneak out of his parents’ house, glancing over at Alfyn's bed every couple of seconds. He didn’t stir, even when he walked by to gather the rest of his things. He was a heavy sleeper. He wouldn’t wake up from any of this. 

It should have made his job easier. This was a thief’s dream come true— somebody who slept so soundly that they didn’t notice another person moving around in their room. 

And yet, it just made him feel like shit.

All of his belongings were packed. His weapons were strapped into place. His shoes were on. The bed was made, and everything was perfect. 

Well, everything except the pit in Therion's stomach, but what else was new?

Alfyn's form lay still beside him, and he watched him for a long, long while. After all, this would be the last time he saw him. He had might as well memorize his face, keep his gentle expression as a keepsake for the road. 

After all, he'd much rather remember this version of him than one with teary eyes, desperately trying to smile through his farewell.

_ What kind of coward are you, waiting until he's asleep to say goodbye? _

Therion bit his cheek, staring down at him. His chest slowly rose and fell under the covers, deeply asleep. Part of him wanted for Alfyn to feel his gaze, to open his eyes and ask him what he was doing, why he was fully dressed, why he looked so sad, why he was sneaking out when he  _ promised _ —

_ No promises _ . He had said that to him, after all, and it should have relieved him. It was an escape route, leaving him just enough wiggle room to slip out without feeling remorse, but...

Why wasn’t it working? Why did it make his stomach feel sick and hollow, as if he had  _ killed  _ Alfyn instead of simply leaving him behind?

_ Are you betraying him, by doing this? Are you letting him down? _

_ Are you breaking his innocent heart, by teaching him that he can’t trust people like that? _

He didn't want to think about it. He didn’t want to  _ think _ about it, didn’t want to know, didn’t want to feel anything about this.

He didn't want to. Didn't want to, didn't want to. 

_ Coward. _

He couldn't. He couldn’t do it.

_ You fucking _ **_coward_ ** _. _

“Thank you,” Therion whispered, to Alfyn's sleeping face. “And... I'm sorry.”

_ I'm really sorry. _

And, with that, he took his belongings and left the room without a sound, placed his key on the desk and left the inn, looked back at the building one last time... 

 

... and left the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : )


	13. Atonement

A lonely breeze blew, and it tasted of salt.

The weather was unremarkable. Grey, cool, with a thin crescent moon poking weakly through a haze of cloud. Trees rustled faintly, brushed by the hands of a nighttime wind, and the long grasses bowed and danced with every gust. 

Otherwise, though, it was quiet, undisturbed by little more than the wind currents and the occasional cry of midnight birds. No monsters roamed the area, and no animals grazed. No travelers were out, either. 

Well, no travelers save for one.

Alone, flanked by stacks of rock and lonely shrubs, was the small blot of a man.

It was just Therion. By himself, like what he wanted.

Because that  _ was _ what he wanted, right?

It was amazing, he thought, just how silent the world could be without four other people talking, without their footsteps rustling through the grass or crunching on gravel as they walked, without Cyrus’s rambling lessons, or Ophilia’s soft words of prayer, or H’aanit’s quiet presence, or... 

Therion exhaled. Not having Alfyn around was... definitely the most noticeable change. 

It was strange, he decided. It wasn’t even necessarily just the lack of his whistling, or humming, or meandering stories or boots crushing twigs underfoot, but rather the lack of his overall presence that struck Therion so deeply, and he didn’t see why it was such a big deal. After all, he had gotten used to being alone... whether he liked it or not. Solitude was simply a constant for a good portion of his life, a reliable default he could always count on, and that was  _ fine _ , for the most part. 

He was most quiet while alone, after all, and people were therefore much less likely to notice him. If people didn’t notice him, it made his job easier, allowed him to lift their leaves from their pockets and to duck away unseen, melt back into the background monotony, and that was the way things were  _ supposed to be _ , for him. That was how thieves lived. That was how they  _ had _ to live.

It was funny. Once upon a time, almost a month ago, he would have been exceedingly grateful to return to this lifestyle. If Alfyn had been able to cure him right off the bat and he had been able to leave, he would have without a second thought, and he would have done his best to forget all about him. In fact, he probably would have. His face would have melted away into a blur, left only as the vague features of a backwoods apothecary with scruffy hair that saved his life, once, and that would be all.

Now, though... something lingered. 

Therion scowled. It felt as if he’d left something behind at the inn, but he couldn’t place it. That made no sense, seeing as to how he owned little and carried even less, and he was certain that he had missed nothing. Clouded as his mind had been, he had still meticulously gone through the mental checklist of his belongings and taken every last thing. 

So what was it? What did he lose? 

He tipped his head back to look up at the clouds. What felt like it was missing? What felt off, to him?

It couldn’t be that it was  _ too quiet _ , now, was it?

He scoffed. Since when was he one to complain about the silence? He had been fine with it for six years. 

Even though, a small part of him reminded him, there was a period in the beginning of those six years where he really,  _ really  _ wasn’t fine with it.

But he survived then, regardless of how little he wanted to, and the emptiness of the world around him became normal once again. 

Mostly. 

Nearly. 

Save, of course, for when  _ he’d _ follow him anyways, his ghost lingering at the edge of his vision, green cape flickering in his peripheral sight. 

Green was complicated to him now. 

Above all, it made him remember. Green was the colour of breaking out of gaol and breathless heists, of learning how to throw knives, of the burn of alcohol in his throat. It was the colour of hiding beneath his cape in the rain, of laughing over a story told by a fire, of shaking through his first kiss (even though, in retrospect, he didn’t deserve to take  _ that _ from him, like so many other  _ first _ things).

Green was also the colour of a knife shoved into his stomach and dragged over his eye, of his vengeance, of greed and jealousy, and the sickening feeling of being weightless, of his scarf nearly being pulled free by the wind, of his laugh ricocheting off of the rocks until—

He didn’t remember much after that. 

What he knew was that, for those six years, green cloth made him feel indescribably uneasy. 

So, imagine his initial shock and confusion those few weeks ago upon waking to a whistling, backwoodsy apothecary draped in green, casually making him tea by the fire. 

He had never really gotten over the green aversion. Glancing over too quickly towards Alfyn would always fill his mouth with a bitter taste, would create an uptick in his pulse until he turned, grinned at him, gently laid a palm on his shoulder, clinked mugs with him at the tavern. 

His pulse would stay up, sometimes, even though the anxiety would dissipate. 

_ This is the past now, _ Therion reminded himself, trying to shake the thought of his smile from his mind, and he was shocked to find that a part of him resisted it. It wasn’t just Alfyn, either— none of the others truly allowed themselves to be dismissed. 

He thought of Cyrus, and he thought of the sound of pages turning, of long-winded lessons on the etymology of certain words, of the hair on his head floating up whenever he instructed them to stand closer to him in battle, spells crackling around him. 

_ Cyrus is boring, _ he thought, unconvincingly.  _ He takes too long to get ready in the morning and frets too much about dirt.  _

He thought of H’aanit, and he thought of a bowstring snapping, of Linde nosing her great head into his palm, of the sweetness of pastry on his tongue, of jams and perfectly-cooked meats. 

_ Her dialect is exhausting to listen to and her fucking snow leopard still scares the shit out of me. _

He thought of Ophilia, and he thought of bells softly chiming above their heads, of the calming scent of incense, of a candle left burning at the inn when he first thought of running, for real.

_ She’s just as naive as Alfyn, and naivete annoys me more than anything. _

And, finally, he thought of Alfyn. 

He thought a lot of Alfyn. 

Whether he wanted to or not, he’d known him for the longest out of all of them, so he thought of him the most. He thought of green, sure, but he also thought of the scent of herbs, of the warmth of fingers spreading salve on his wrist, of the sour taste of crimsonberries, of his hair tickling him as he listened to his wheezing lungs, of crooked smiles and tears as he apologized for his rudeness.

Kindness. He thought of kindness, and he shouldn’t have felt a loss from that being gone, too. 

_ It’s for the best _ , he thought, lightly tracing his fingers over a rock formation as he passed by.  _ Even if he won’t think so, this is for the best.  _

_ Besides, this is just what he gets for trusting me. _

_ His _ voice called out to him as he thought that, and Therion’s jaw tightened.

_ Trustin’ people never ends well, teapot.  _

It didn’t. Therion knew that all too well. 

He really hated that he had to learn the hard way, too.

The ocean winds brushed at his cheek, his hair, and though the air felt different, smelled different, he remembered the day in the Cliftlands all the same. By then, he was fine, but his body ached in places that had long healed over, long sealed shut with the pale shine of scars. His eye stung from the memory, watering from the slice of an invisible blade, and his stomach hurt from the same thing, embedded deep beneath his ribcage. 

His hands had gripped the fist holding the dagger, felt the wetness of blood slicking them. The dagger was his own, stolen from its scabbard while his eyes were closed.

_ Funny, innit?  _ His old partner had said, after tearing the blade out, wiping it on Therion’s clothes.  _ You’re just a tea leaf like me, Therion. An’ y’know what ‘appens to tea leaves once you’re done with ‘em, right?  _

He knew. Just like with the tea that Alfyn brewed for him, the leaves and the petals at the bottom were scraped out and thrown away when the cup was empty. Even back then, he knew the answer.

_ Good boy, _ he had said, one last time, and while he had never  _ loved _ it, regardless of the context, it felt especially sickening to him then, with him leaning in for an unpleasant kiss that almost felt like a parody of the last one (the one that he had only used to distract him, to render Therion incapable of noticing his dagger being taken). 

He wiped away blood from his lips once it was over. Therion felt faint.

_ Glad to see that you know at least that much. When you’re done drinkin’ the tea, the leaves— _

He tossed the dagger aside.

_ —get— _

He grabbed Therion by the shoulders, hard enough to hurt.

_ —thrown— _

He pulled him just a touch towards him.

_ — _ **_out_ ** _. _

And he shoved him.

He staggered back, scrambling, reaching for his wrists, his cape, the rocks, something,  _ anything _ , and—

A short scream, far off and barely audible, jolted Therion from his reminiscing. 

He stopped walking, heart pounding. What in the hells was  _ that _ ? 

_ I can’t tell if that was a human, or a monster.... _

He stood there for some time longer, listening, waiting. The noise did not come again, and he wondered if he might have heard a deer or a rabbit dying. He’s heard the sound before, off far away in the forests by the river as a child, and he supposed that it would make sense to hear it again, alone, at night, in the wilderness.

...

_ What the fuck am I doing...? _

Though it had taken an embarrassingly long time, Therion became aware, just then, of exactly how insane this whole thing was. He was alone. He had been awake for almost twenty-four hours. It was past midnight. The night wind was cold, and laden with damp from the sea. He’d fled in a fit of panic from the inn (a warm, free bed, no less), without taking any of Alfyn’s belongings to help him survive, and he’d landed himself spectacularly in the middle of nowhere, on a wagon-rutted path surrounded by rock and grasses and fuck all else,  _ and _ , apparently, there were monsters out and about. 

_ Superb. _

And why? Just so he could run away from his problems? Just so he could go back to being miserable and alone, back to sleeping behind barrels and crates, squat in derelict houses? 

Was  _ that _ what he really wanted?

The scream rang out again, higher and louder this time. It sent a horrible chill down his spine, and he pressed closer to the rocks near him. That definitely wasn’t an animal, that time. It sounded like a person in pain, or else crawling away from something about to kill them. 

Therion swallowed, shivering. He didn’t like confrontation at the best of times, let alone in this state, exhausted and alone as he was, so he waited for a moment, listening for any sign of life, any further screams. 

He didn’t hear any. 

Therion knew that that probably wasn’t a good sign. In theory, sure, whoever it was  _ could  _ have escaped, but... 

After waiting another fifteen or so minutes, he gathered up enough courage to step away from the rocks. He couldn’t stay there forever. He had to keep going, at least until daylight. Once daylight hit, then he could try to find a hidden spot to take a nap, rest his tired feet, and pick himself up again, dust himself off, and continue on to Bolderfall. 

He was quite off-schedule, after all. The dragonstone remained heavy in his pocket, taunting him, reminding him of the task he’d been essentially neglecting over the past few days (past few weeks, really) and it strengthened his resolve. He had to get to Bolderfall, had to get back to that stodgy motherfucker Heathcote, had to listen to that empty-headed girl Cordelia try to wish him luck once again, had to be redirected back out the door to some  _ other _ location, and it would be fine. 

It would be awful, and he would hate it, but it would be  _ fine _ , because that’s why he started this whole thing in the first place, so he’d do it. 

He’d do it alone. Because he didn’t care whether or not he was alone. 

Something in the distance caught his eye. 

It was light, he realized. Just a pinprick, faint, flickering amidst the grass on the horizon.

He squinted, suspicious. Now why in the world might he see light, all the way out here, at this hour? 

_ It’s not because I’m overtired, is it? _

Some part of him was aware that it very well could have been due to exhaustion. And while it usually took longer before the hallucinations would start to creep in, he knew that it was plausible, at least. 

Because of that, he carefully started to walk towards it, if only to see  _ what _ the source of the light was. After all, it might disappear once he drew nearer, if it were a figment of his imagination. And, if it weren’t, then he might be able to loot some supplies, or else keep a wide berth of them if he deemed them to be trouble.

He also considered that it might have been a lantern dropped by whoever screamed earlier, so he had to stay alert.

As he came closer, he realized that it was indeed a lantern, and there were two  _ things _ within the circle of light.

He placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger, walking a bit lower to the ground, like H’aanit always did. The two forms in the light seemed reasonably stationary, and, upon further examination, he could see that they appeared to be human. 

Travelers? It was awfully late for travelers to be out. 

He really should have turned around, or else taken a detour around them, but curiosity drove him to take a few paces closer, staying hidden all the while. Who were they? They didn’t appear to be settling down to rest— this area was too open, too exposed. Only a fool would set up camp in open terrain. They were too still, sitting up but not moving anything around. There was no fire to cook dinner, nor a map open to look at.

So... what were they doing?

He couldn’t run off now— his curiosity was almost overwhelming, driving his feet to take a few steps closer. 

Getting nearer to them revealed their identities: A man, and a girl.

He was quite close now. Before they could notice him, he crouched behind a nearby bush, observing. The two of them were on the ground, with the man kneeling beside her and the girl crying into her hands. The man appeared to be a soldier ( _ A sellsword? Mercenary? _ ), and he was trying to calm her. Her leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, heel pointing towards the sky. Even at a glance, he could tell that it was broken. She also had blood on her arms and staining her dress, as if she’d been attacked shortly before he found them. Therion supposed that that explained the screams that he had heard.

_ Father and daughter...? _ he wondered, but quickly found that that didn’t seem right— the man looked a touch uncomfortable, as if they had only just met. Perhaps he had stumbled across her, just as he had found them by chance?

Therion watched them for a while longer, deducing what he could from where he was. The girl had a polearm lying next to her, but it was small— a traveler’s version, meant to strap in alongside a bag. It had some blood on it, but not enough to suggest that she had successfully killed whatever had been attacking her. Near her, a backpack lay. Therion recognized it as a merchant’s bag, complete with a rolled cloth to serve as the shop floor, and he was baffled. What in the hells was a  _ kid  _ doing, running around and playing merchant? 

As the man shifted to get a better look at her injuries, Therion saw the bloodied, mangled carcass of whatever monster had been attacking her. He also caught sight of the greatsword lying alongside him on the grass, blade dark with blood, and raised his eyebrows. That really wasn’t just any regular sword— it looked to be nearly the same height as the girl in question, and even he could tell that it was  _ heavy _ . Sellswords and mercenaries came in all types and fighting styles, sure, but this felt different, somehow.

What kind of swordsman  _ was _ this guy? 

“Haahh... i-it... it  _ hurts _ ,” the girl sobbed, rubbing at her eyes, and the man looked at her with a guilty smile. 

“It must hurt,” he replied, soothingly. “But, I promise that we will find help for you.”

His voice was low and clipped, though kind. Perhaps very faintly accented, with as many peaks in his words as the mountains, and Therion realized that he was probably from the Highlands. It was also surprisingly noble, if not as overwhelmingly  _ highborn _ as Cyrus, carrying all the rough elegance of a member of a royal guard, or else someone of equal importance.

This guy  _ definitely _ wasn’t just a simple sellsword. 

“Wh... S-sir, wh-what are we g-going to  _ do _ ?” she cried, and her voice was so disturbingly miserable that Therion felt a bit uncomfortable listening. Not just because it always felt bad to listen to innocents in pain... but because that was all that he was doing— listening. 

The guilt snuck up on him all at once, coiling in his stomach and leaving him tasting something bitter in his teeth. Would he run away from this, too, just like how he’d run away from Alfyn, from the others, from everything in his wretched life? 

The thought of Alfyn waking later that morning and gazing sadly at his empty bed came into his mind, and refused to dissipate.

_ Coward.  _

_ Therion, you fucking piece of shit  _ **_coward_ ** _.  _

He had taken the weakest exit, ran away without saying a word, or even leaving a hasty note, even though he had let Alfyn believe that maybe, just maybe, he had managed to get through to him, managed to convince him that he might stay after all, that maybe he was a decent person at heart. 

_ Am I, though? _

... No, maybe he wasn’t. But, that didn’t mean that he had to run away from this, too.

With that, he stepped out from behind the bush and approached them. 

It was impulsive. It was weird, and foolish, and sentimental, and completely against every instinct he had, but...

“H-hail, traveler,” the man stuttered, startled from having spotted him, and Therion knew that he couldn’t back out now. “My apologies for bothering you, but... do you happen to know how to help this girl?”

The girl in question looked up with watery green eyes, swollen and irritated from crying, then dropped her gaze back to the grass.

“P-please...” she whimpered, tears dribbling down her chin. “Please... please help me... i-it hurts... s-so  _ much _ ...” 

Was this how he had looked when Alfyn had found him? Broken and sobbing and bloody, worn out from pain and misery and fear?

Because he knew full well that this wasn’t how Alfyn would have looked. He wouldn’t have looked uncomfortable, flighty, uncertain of what to do.

Therion wasn't Alfyn, in any capacity. In all likelihood, he was aware that he probably only knew roughly the same amount of first aid as the soldier did. Therefore, this was wildly beyond their scope of expertise, and Therion didn't like that much.

He felt useless. Stupid, and tired, and useless.

“... I... I don’t know how to... fix that...” Therion admitted, awkwardly. “Um. Sorry.” 

Her sobs grew more despondent. 

“I... I see...” the man said, giving a remorseful smile. “Well... I thank you for trying. But, traveler, before you go...” 

“... Hm?” 

“Might you happen to know someone who could help? Or... if not that, then simply how to get to the next town? Her map was destroyed in the fight.” 

Well, Therion did know how to get back to Goldshore. 

And, more importantly, Therion knew somebody. 

“.... Yeah. I... know how to get to Goldshore, and... I know someone.” 

The soldier's dark eyes actually lit up as he said that, as if praising the gods for his good luck, and Therion turned away, embarrassed. 

“You have a friend who can help her?” 

_ ‘Friend’ is a strong word. _ “... Sure.”

“I deeply regret to ask this of you, traveler, but might you be able to guide us to them?” he asked, and Therion sighed. He couldn't act too inconvenienced here. After all, some part of him had been looking for an excuse, if unconsciously, to go back to Goldshore without seeming as if he’d come crawling back with his tail between his legs... and here it was. A girl in need of medical assistance that neither him nor this soldier could provide.

How bizarre, indeed.

“... Fine.” 

“Thank you, traveler. I am in your debt.” 

With that, the man wiped his blade and stood up, and Therion realized just how  _ massive _ he actually was. Easily a full foot taller than him, and probably a good hundred pounds of muscle heavier.

_ Good lord, this man is built like a fucking grizzly bear. _

Therion watched him stow his sword back into its scabbard, then bend down to pick the girl up as gently as possible. She let out a short, hoarse scream of pain as he lifted her, clutching tight at his armour. Her broken leg hung crookedly off of his elbow, foot dangling like a marionette’s, and Therion wondered if his arm had looked something like that when Alfyn had found him.

After a moment of deliberation, Therion awkwardly picked up her backpack and set it on his shoulders. He also took her spear and the lantern in his hands. The soldier thanked him for getting those, and he gave a small nod in return. It stopped him from looking completely useless, so that was good enough for him.

The man was mercifully silent through nearly the entirety of the walk back to Goldshore, aside from asking the girl every so often if she was still alright. Therion didn’t attempt to engage in conversation with him, and he didn’t try, either. The girl, unsurprisingly, wasn’t much in the mood to chat, and she alternated between bouts of pained crying and a near-catatonic silence, staring up at the sky with blank, dull eyes. Though the man tried to walk carefully, her leg was still jostled with nearly every step, and she would wince from the impact.

Light had started to bleed over the horizon, and the tang of salt filled his nostrils once again as they entered the town. Therion headed towards the inn, wondering what to do here. Since it was still dark out, surely Alfyn would be sleeping, right?

Hopefully. Hopefully he'd be sleeping.

He came up to the outside of the building, and stopped, setting her belongings down. The girl barely even made a sound when the soldier came to a halt nearby, eyelashes fluttering weakly. The extent of the pain must have left her exhausted, Therion realized.

“Your friend is in the inn?” wondered the man, and Therion nodded.

“... Yeah. Hang on a sec.”

“... Hurry...” the girl breathed, sounding barely conscious. “... p-please... hurry...”

Therion nodded again, fishing in his pocket for his lockpick set. He had left the keys on the desk as he left, so he had to enter the building in a less lawful way. 

He half-expected for the soldier to comment on it, to scold him for breaking and entering, at the very least, but he didn’t. A quick glance backwards found that he was looking at him curiously, but upon making eye contact, he just seemed to focus back towards the door, as if to say,  _ Well, go on _ , so Therion shrugged and continued. 

The lock popped and clicked open, and Therion paused, hand resting on the doorknob. 

“Just... wait here,” he said, to the soldier. “He’s going to have to reset that broken leg. I don’t think... that the other people in the inn want to wake up to that.” 

“... I should think not,” the soldier agreed. “I cannot say that having a fracture set is a fun experience.” 

_ It sure as hells isn’t _ , thought Therion, twisting the doorknob.

The front desk was unmanned, with the innkeeper probably still in bed. He supposed that he would soon be rising, seeing as to how the light was beginning to creep over the horizon, so he didn’t linger for long. All he did was duck behind the desk to take his room key once more, then walk down the hall. 

As he went, he started to feel a strange sense of trepidation, of dread weighing his heart with every step closer to his room, and he began to feel nervous. 

Why? What was he afraid of? Alfyn probably wouldn’t even be up yet. It’s not as if Alfyn would even  _ know _ that he had been out, that he had tried to run away from this, too, that he had chosen to act like a fucking  _ coward—  _

He snorted at his wishful thinking.  _ Oh, sure, like he  _ **_won't_ ** _ notice that I'm fully dressed and asking him to look at someone we don't even know. _

The soldier was still waiting. Therion sighed and stuck the key into the lock, silently pushing it open, biting his cheek and waiting for the flurry of angry words from an Alfyn that had decided to wake up early.

However, none came. 

Therion poked his head into the room, and saw that Alfyn was still in bed, perfectly motionless. He was asleep, as far as Therion could tell, and he was grateful for that, at least.

The first half of this process was over. Now, he only had to walk up to him and wake him up. That's it. 

He just needed to shake him awake, and direct him to the girl. That's  _ it _ .

But, he hesitated all the same, foot outstretched before him, held back by some invisible force. 

What was he so afraid of?

_ You just have to wake him up.  _

He was being stupid. This was  _ Alfyn, _ for the gods’ sakes. Therion hadn't been forced to wake him before, but he doubted that he would be  _ furious _ if he did. After all, he himself has insisted, on several occasions, to wake him if he needed anything.

_ But he'll see your clothes and assume that you fled, moron. _

Therion bit harder into his cheek. And so what if he was mad? So what if he could tell that Therion had tried to sneak away? He dug this grave for himself. Impulsivity would always come back to bite him in the ass, and right then was no exception.

_ So this is just what you fucking deserve, Therion. You made a stupid choice, and now you have to deal with it.  _

He just had to  _ deal _ with it.

_ Just fucking  _ **_do_ ** _ it, idiot.  _

He stepped into the room and approached Alfyn’s bedside, observing. He was very much asleep, curled on his side and breathing slowly. Therion couldn’t tell if he’d woken up at any point before then.

He kinda hoped not.

“A-Alfyn,” Therion said, quietly, but he didn't stir. “Hey. Alfyn.” 

No response. 

“Alfyn.” 

Nothing.

Therion sighed and reached out, placing his palm on his shoulder and pushing. 

“For fuck's sake, Alfyn,” he scolded, shoving a bit more firmly. “Hey. Medicine man. Rise and shine.”

He shook him another few times, and he finally stirred, groaning from confusion. 

“Wh— huh...?” Alfyn mumbled, peering up at him through bleary eyes. “Th... erion...?” 

“Alfyn. Get up.” 

“... Time izzit...?” he asked, head still fogged from sleep, and Therion sighed, shrugging.

“Hells if I know. Early. Get up.” 

He didn’t seem convinced, but he reached up to rub at his eyes, shove fingers through his hair. “... Uh... m’kay... why, though?” 

“Girl’s got a broken leg. Hurry up.” 

That seemed to get his attention. Alfyn’s expression became a touch more alert, eyes sharpening.

“A broken... Sh-shit, okay, lemme get up,” Alfyn said, half to himself. “I know you... ain’t a doctor but... how bad?”

Well now how the  _ fuck _ would he know  _ that _ ? Therion scowled at him as he got out of bed and stretched, but soon sighed, forced himself to hold his tongue.  _ Don't snap at him. You're just overtired. _

“... Her lower leg is twisted really bad,” he eventually supplied, as Alfyn hastily tied his stupid scruffy hair back. “Her foot’s facing the wrong way.”

“Any visible bone? Open wounds on the leg?” 

Not that he recalled. “No.” 

“Hm. Okay, that’s a start. Anythin' else I should know about?”

“... Scratches and scrapes, but nothing...  _ major _ , I think.”

Therion watched him throw his bag over his shoulder, wrestle his feet into his boots. 

“She just outside?” he wondered, and Therion nodded. 

“Mhm. Should be. Doubt they wandered off.” 

“Ah, okay. That’s— hold up,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “‘They’?” 

Therion shrugged. “I didn’t carry her here. She was with a sellsword.” 

Alfyn blinked, then nodded, satisfied with that. “Oh huh, okay. Cool.” 

_ Cool indeed. _ Therion made a small grunt of acknowledgement and kicked his boots off, unraveling his scarf and shawl in a lackluster motion.  _ Fuck _ , but he was tired. The exhaustion had been weighing on him for some time by then, but he really only became fully aware of it at that moment, staring at the empty bed practically calling his name. Fuck it. He could deal with everything later. Right then, though, he was going to sleep. 

“... You're stayin’ here?” wondered Alfyn, hand on the doorknob, and Therion practically flopped into the bed, pulling the covers around him.

“... Mhm,” he mumbled, settling his head into the pillow. Gods, but he was comfortable. In that moment, nothing short of Galdera himself would be able to remove Therion from that bed, consequences be damned. 

“Well... alright, that's fine,” Alfyn said, and while Therion could hear that he wasn't entirely satisfied, he still knew that he didn't have the time to press him further right then. “You look beat, so have a good sleep, alright? I'll see ya later.” 

“... Mm,” 

Alfyn left to tend to the girl. Once he left, Therion conked out almost immediately. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep for all of five hours before he woke up again, hungry and thirsty and needing to pee so bad that he thought his bladder might explode. 

He wanted to sleep longer, preferably for another twenty hours or a week or a month, even, but he groaned and crawled out of bed, trudging to the bathroom in a stupor. Time felt wrong somehow, knocked askew from his ruined sleep schedule, and he examined his reflection as he washed his hands. Dark circles, tousled hair. His skin looked oily, dirty, and he sighed, took some soap. He shoved his hair back, revealing his other eye, and he set about washing his face, scrubbing the grime away, trying to make himself look better than how he felt.

The scar remained, though. It always would, no matter how fiercely he scrubbed.

When the soap was rinsed away and he dried his face with a towel, he stared at himself, at the hair still partly pushed up and back, at his cold, tired gaze reflected in the glass.

He had never loved the sight of his face, really.

Sure, he supposed that he wasn’t  _ terrible-looking _ . Still a bit boyish, perhaps, despite being an adult, but not ugly. His lips were a little thin, fixed in a near-permanent scowl, and his eyes were sharp, a vague mix of blue and green, like the scum at the bottom of a pond, one of them marred with that stupid godsdamned  _ scar _ . 

Therion had lots of scars, but this one was different. He didn’t care  _ nearly _ as much about any other scar on his body. 

He sighed, stepped out of the room. What did scars from animals, from knives, from broken glass mean to him? Part and parcel. They came with the job, were handed out with the title of being a thief, were given to him freely as a reminder that, to most people, he was a pest no different than the rats they drowned, kicked aside with their boots. Vagrant, vermin, vulture, slipping amongst the crowds unseen, pulling away their excess, rifling through the pockets of corpses decaying by the sides of the roads, finding blood-stained leaves in the mess left by a monster. His hands were useful, because of that, and he made sure to keep them safe.

But, aside from his hands, the single most important tool in a thief’s arsenal were his eyes. 

The scar over the one reminded him of that, of what  _ he _ had tried to take from him, of the message that it spelled. 

Thieves knew how best to render other thieves useless, after all, and fingers were a lot harder to break than eyes. 

_ A thief who can't see might as well do ‘imself a favour an’ kill ‘imself, Therion. _

So, he let his hair fall back over his shame, over the eye that didn’t see as well as the other, over the mark that reminded him that  _ he  _ hadn’t cared at all about him, really, no matter how hard Therion tried, and he put his shawl back on. Reminiscing for too long always hurt, and while he was more than used to the feeling by then, he still shook the thoughts away, wrapped his scarf around his neck. 

The quietness of the room was nice, but it only served to amplify the unwanted thoughts. Therion knew that this could get out-of-hand very fast if he wasn’t careful enough. Silence only made the ghost more likely to appear, more likely to try and remind him of all the things he wanted to scratch out of his head, and he crammed his feet into his boots. He had to get up, go out, distract himself. 

He opened the door and poked his head out into the hallway. Nobody could be seen, nor heard. 

He went to lock the door, and saw a note pinned to the surface of the wood. It was slightly above his eye level, folded once, and had his name written in smooth block lettering. Therion was thankful that whoever had left it for him had spelled his name correctly. 

He plucked it from its spot and opened it, starting to read. He had a vague idea, even before unfolding it, of who it was from, and his suspicions were proven correct upon reading the first line.

 

_ Dear Therion, _

_How's it going, buddy? If you're_ _reading this, that means that you've woken up before I've gotten back (obviously). I don't know what everyone else will be up to by the time you're reading this, but as of now (eight thirty, I think), the girl's in stable condition. H’aanit let her take her bed and she fell right asleep. Poor thing was wiped from all of this... But I don't really blame her. All things considering, she's one hell of a trooper._

_ The sellsword guy she was with is also sleeping. He just laid out his bedroll and passed out on the floor of Ophilia and H'aanit's room. I’d assume he’ll still be sleeping by the time you wake up. Same as the girl. I didn’t really ask them much, since they were both exhausted. Ophilia passed out after that too, since healing a broken leg takes a lot of energy. I’d guess that they’ll all be out for a while. _

_ You woke me up at right about six-thirty, maybe seven in the morning... something like that? Anyways, after you went to bed, I went out to take a look at the girl you brought back. Just like you said, her leg was broken to shit. Actually, it was pretty similar to how your arm was when we found you— her tibia and fibula were both snapped clean through (those would be the two bones found between your foot and your knee, by the way). I realigned those for her and got Ophilia to use her healing on them. Judging by the cuts and scrapes on her, she was attacked by a monster some time before you found them.  _

_ I still don’t know how and where you found them. Looks like they’ve been walking for a while, though. I’m curious.  _

_ I don't know if you want to or anything, but I'll be heading to the tavern for lunch, so if you  _ _ do _ _ want to, maybe you could meet me there? Not just because I wanna chat with you, but also just because I like hanging out with you haha... _

_ You don’t have to or anything if you don’t want to... but I'll buy lunch for you if you do. Sound good? _

_ See you soon, _

_ Alfyn. _

 

Therion sighed and folded the letter back up, shoving it in his pocket. So Alfyn wanted to meet up with him, huh? 

Well, he supposed that he couldn’t really blame him. He  _ had _ disappeared for a time last night, and while he didn’t know if Alfyn had woken up or not in between the time he left and came back, he had surely noticed that Therion was fully dressed, at the very least.

Alfyn could be naive, after all, but he wasn’t stupid. 

Therion thought back to the letter. Frankly, he didn’t particularly care either way if Alfyn was there or not if he went to the tavern. If he wanted to eat lunch with him... so be it. Therion was hungry either way. 

Besides... if he ate lunch with Alfyn, perhaps he’d get the answers to the questions lurking in the back of his mind, plaguing him whenever he got too comfortable with them being around him, and he might learn what he  _ really _ wanted to do. 

Because, even though he still felt like he shouldn’t be here, with them, by their sides... leaving also felt wrong. 

The guilt hadn’t gone away yet, after all.

So, Therion decided to go outside, at the very least. Where everyone else was was a mystery to him. Knowing his luck, he’d run into someone soon enough. 

The ocean air burned at his nostrils as he shut the front door behind him, sea winds whipping at his scarf, and Therion adjusted it, stepping out into the sun. People milled about, passing by for their daily errands. Even in his narrow frame of view, the town seemed somewhat livelier than it was the day before, so Therion supposed that the medicine that Alfyn had brewed for them was working. 

Technically, it was something that they had both contributed to, since Therion had ensured that Alfyn had come out of the cave alive in the first place, but he dismissed the thought. 

The winds carried a sound to him then, of children laughing at the beach, and he felt his attention grabbed by Alfyn’s voice following, calling after them. His tone sounded playful, light-hearted, missing the weight from yesterday.

He was struck with a sense of deja-vu as he approached the seawall, watching Alfyn playing with not one but two young girls this time, and he recognized them as Ellen and Flynn both. They were holding shiny new shovels and pails, each of them being filled with seashells. He was certain that they didn’t have those before. 

Therion didn’t really know the price of a pail and shovel, let alone two, but he doubted somewhat that Marlene would have been able to afford something like that, with how poor they were. He wondered if Alfyn had bought those for them, and realized that, knowing him, he probably did.

Why did he even wonder? Of course he would do that for them. With the leaves Therion had gifted him, he could afford to be every bit as kind as he had dreamed of being.

Therion didn't have the heart to interrupt them right away, but he didn't leave to go to the tavern, either. He simply leaned against the railing, watching the girls retrieving shells and digging in the sand, playing with bits of driftwood and seaweed. Alfyn, meanwhile, had found a palm-sized crab and had picked it up, chasing the girls around with it, and they screamed from fear and delight whenever he drew near with it. 

That weird, hollow feeling in Therion's chest had returned, watching Alfyn laughing and kicking up sand as he ran with the girls, and he didn’t know what it was. Perhaps, he supposed, that it was how happy Alfyn looked? How kind he was, to look at these girls and to indulge them in playing at the beach, without even questioning it? How much he’d done already for them, without needing to, beyond his duty as an apothecary? 

How could he keep on giving, and giving, and  _ giving  _ without it destroying him?

How did he do that?

“Mister Alfyn!” Ellen called, running up to him then. “Mister Alfyn, look!”

He stopped and turned his attention towards her, smiling expectantly. The girl placed an item in his palm, and Therion saw that it was a large seashell.

Alfyn turned it over in his hand, examining it, and let out a low whistle.

“Whew, look at that!” he enthused, cracking a bright smile. “This one’s beautiful, Ellen. I reckon you could sell this one for a profit, if ya wanted.” 

Flynn came up to him then, looking at it, then shook her head. Ellen mirrored her, both of them declining the offer. 

“No, Mister Alfyn,” Ellen explained. “Umm, this is a present for you. For being so nice.”

“Yeah!” agreed Flynn, enthusiastically. “You saved my life, Mister Alfyn!”

“Mama said that without you, Flynn might not have made it! So we wanna give this to you!” 

“R-really?” Alfyn stammered, looking between the girls. “A-are ya sure?”

“Yeah!” Flynn giggled, nodding vigorously. “Thank you, Mister Alfyn!”

“Yeah, thank you!!” echoed Ellen, smiling widely. “You’re a grown-up, but you’re a fun grown-up! We like you!” 

“Sh-shucks,” Alfyn faltered, looking back at their gift to him. “I’m... happy, girls, thank you.”

The girls enthused further to him about their gift, their gratitude, and Alfyn silently examined the shell further, thinking.

Up on the seawall, Therion thought, too.  Being someone who specialized more in jewelry and gemstones, he wasn't exactly an expert in gauging the value of things like seashells, but he knew enough to know that mother-of-pearl could fetch a fair price further inland, away from the sea. The overall size and the vibrancy of the abalone both spelled out that this shell in particular was worth a fair bit more than the smaller ones they had placed in their buckets. In other words, this would benefit them a hell of a lot more than it would Alfyn, who would never sell it.

Yet, they gave it to him regardless. Without hesitation, without consideration of whether or not they needed it. 

They were children, sure. They weren’t going to think too hard about consequences, or about  _ what ifs, _ or anything of the sort. All they cared about was that Alfyn didn’t accept money, and he saved the life of not only Flynn, but half of the townsfolk.

So, as Flynn and Ellen both enthusiastically declared that he deserved it, Therion felt something deep within his cold, cracked heart. 

Alfyn's expression changed as he cupped the seashell in his palms, watching the sun catch and refract on the abalone. It was complex, clouded with something that Therion didn’t know. Happiness? Sorrow? Regret, perhaps. But, mostly, it was surprise. That much, he could understand. 

Even so, even though he had been looking at him the entire time, Alfyn’s eyes welling up still caught him off-guard, and Therion silently watched him reach up to wipe his tears off, cover his mouth to stifle a sob. Alfyn gazed down at the lonely little shell in his hand and cried at their kindness, at their thoughtfulness, and perhaps something else, too, Therion supposed, something buried inside of him stirred by the selflessness of the girls. 

“Mister Alfyyyn!” one of the girls chided, giggling. “Why're you crying, Mister Alfyn?? You're a grown-up!” 

He was a grown-up, and therefore shouldn’t have been crying, in their eyes, but Therion was starting to see that that didn’t really mean much to Alfyn. He just laughed, though the noise was shaky, wavering from emotion.

“H-hey, c’mon,” he replied, smiling through his tears. “Even grown-ups have ta cry sometimes, too.”

The girls giggled, continuing to tease him, and Alfyn gave another small, wavering laugh. He didn’t seem upset, exactly, at least, so Therion didn’t feel too worried.

Not that he felt worried in the first place, of course.

“Hi, Mister Therion!” shouted Ellen, waving, and Therion jumped. Alfyn, too, twitched from surprise, looking up to find him.

“Oh! Mister Therion!” called Flynn, mirroring her sister’s wave. “What’re you doing? Come play with us!!” 

“Oh, you sneaky little bugger,” Alfyn mumbled towards Therion, wiping his eyes. “Gods, this is embarrassin’. Cryin’ like a baby in front've two kids and Therion.”

_ You've cried in front of me before. This isn't new. _ “I'm going to get lunch,” he replied, answering the girl's question. “... I thought I could hear you guys from the inn. Went to see if I was right.”

“Oh!!” gasped Ellen, cracking a grin. “You’re going to the tavern for lunch?!”

“... S-sure am...” he replied, uncertain, and Flynn clapped her hands together.

“Really?? Hey, Mister Alfyn said he wanted to see you for lunch!! He said that he—”

“Y-yeah, yeah, you’ve got it,” Alfyn laughed, awkwardly, clearly trying to stop her from talking more about it, and Therion’s eyes narrowed. “But, uh, y-yeah. Anyways... you, ah... were headin’ to the tavern now?” 

Therion shrugged. “Yeah. I’m fu— ah...”  _ Don’t swear in front of kids. _ “... I’m really hungry so. Uh. Yeah.” 

It came out stilted, just as unwieldy as Alfyn’s last few words, and he wasn’t too sure what to think of it. It was uncomfortable, somehow, and it didn’t feel entirely due to the listening ears of the children.

Rather, as Alfyn sniffled and rubbed his eyes, told the girls that he was going to head to the tavern now, climbed the steps and met him up on the seawall, he got the vague feeling that he’d be getting in trouble sometime very soon. After all, regardless of how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, Alfyn wasn’t a complete moron. 

Surely... he knew what he had tried to get away with that morning, didn’t he...?

As Alfyn took another moment to compose himself, the girls compared their seashells, excitedly talking about how much they could sell them for. Jewelry-makers liked the little round shells, apparently, and tourists liked the shinier, more intricate ones. Therion, admittedly, hadn’t thought much of the uses of seashells before then. Neither Saintsbridge nor Bolderfall were by the ocean, so anything brought back from the sea was considered a reasonably uncommon sight, if not rare.

In a cruel, ironic twist of fate, however, the fact that they lived in an area where there was an abundance of shells meant that, to most of the people living here, they were useless.

The shell was still in Alfyn’s hand, reflecting rainbows onto his skin, and Therion knew, he  _ knew _ that they needed it more than him. And while he wouldn’t take that gift from Alfyn and give it back to them, he still hated the thought of them, in their patched dresses and their porridge meals, possibly missing out on whatever that seashell could bring them in return. 

He remembered sneaking money into Alfyn’s purse. He couldn’t do  _ that _ , specifically, to them, but he could still help. He could still help them.

Why did he want to?

“You comin’ to the tavern, Therion?” Alfyn wondered, and Therion looked over. He had thankfully stopped crying, though his cheeks were still pink from tears. 

“.... Yeah,” he admitted. He would. “You go on ahead, though. I’ll meet you there in a minute.” 

It was an odd thing for him to say, but Alfyn didn’t protest. He shot him a long, meaningful look, as if to say  _ I hope that you do _ , but bade goodbye to the girls, saying he’d see them later. The seashell was safely stowed in a separate pocket in his bag (next to his lucky coin), and he set off with another glance towards Therion. 

As soon as he turned the corner, he turned his attention back to the girls, who were looking up at him with a mild curiosity. 

“What’cha doing, Mister Therion?” Flynn ( _ I think this one is Flynn?? _ ) wondered. 

“Yeah! Mister Alfyn wants to have lunch with you!” agreed Ellen, pointing in the direction of where he had left. “Aren’t you gonna go eat with him?”

“I... y-yeah, in a moment,” Therion replied, awkwardly. “I just wanted to ask you something.” 

“Really?” wondered Ellen, and Flynn cocked her head.

“What didja wanna know, Mister Therion?” 

He turned his attention towards their buckets. How could he approach this...? “... What’cha got there?” 

“Seashells!” Ellen replied, excitedly. “We go to the beach almost every day to collect them!” 

“We pick all the nice ones so we can sell them,” Flynn elaborated, taking one out to demonstrate. “Mama always gets so happy when we come home with money.”

Something about this situation felt oddly familiar to Therion. “... Is it just you two and your mother?” 

Ellen and Flynn nodded. 

“Yeah. Our papa died when we were four.” 

“There was a big storm and he was in his boat. The waves got too big, and his boat sank.” 

This story sounded, oddly enough, quite reminiscent of the story that Alfyn had told Therion about his own parents. His father had drowned, too, when he was quite young, leaving his mother to raise him alone. 

“So you sell seashells to help your mother out,” Therion supposed, receiving a nod from the two girls.  


"Yeah," said Flynn. "Sometimes we get lots of money! But sometimes we don't."

"Usually we don't, I guess..." mused Ellen, a bit sadly.

“... Well, you're in luck,” Therion said, looking back towards the tavern. Alfyn wasn't in sight. “I'm a buyer of goods. And that seashell you gave Alfyn is far too nice to give away for free.”

The girls blinked up at him, surprised, interested, confused. Therion supposed he couldn't blame them. Though they perceived him as a friend of Alfyn's, he was still rumpled from bed and dressed like a hobo. In addition, he hadn't really spoken to them much directly. For him to just approach them like this by himself and offer to pay them... was probably a  _ little  _ weird, even for children. 

“... Mister Therion?” Ellen said, scuffing her shoes into the pavers. “You'll buy that shell that Alfyn got?” 

He couldn't believe that he was doing this, but he nodded, pulling out his coinpurse. “... Mhm. I'll buy it off of you.”

“R-really?” asked Flynn. “But we gave it to Mister Alfyn...”

“You did,” Therion agreed, digging coins from his purse. “And he gets to keep it. But like I said, it's worth too much to give away for free. You deserve  _ something _ for that work, don’t you think?”

He counted out a few thousand leaves each and pressed the piles into their little hands, watching their eyes go wide.

“M-mister Therion?!” Ellen gasped. 

And, he knew that he had definitely overpaid, that this shell was really only worth about  _ maybe _ half of what he gave them, but their eyes lighting up, their nervous, giddy smiles as they realized that he was being serious, their fingers curling tight around the coins, as if they’d disappear if they weren’t careful... made him forget about that, in that moment. 

Therion, after all, understood that feeling all too well. And, he knew just by looking at them, just by placing himself in their shoes, that that money would be a godsend to Marlene.

She reminded him very much of his own mother, in a way, and though it had been almost fifteen years, he still remembered her frail hands taking a pouch of silvers from him, softly asking where in the world he had found  _ that _ , followed by the overwhelming relief in her eyes when he said that it was under a bench, with absolutely nobody nearby to claim it. 

That time, it really had been left under a bench. But, the radiance emanating from within her as she told him to take some of those coins and come back with eggs and meat and milk for them both... made him want to see her like that again.  

In most cases, thievery isn't born from contempt, after all.

So, as the girls thanked him, smiling so widely that it had to have hurt their cheeks, Therion thought of both his mother and of Marlene, of how she could cook them a proper meal for a night or two without worry, and something inside of him ached a little less. 

At the end of the day, after all, he just hoped that more children wouldn’t have to end up like him.

He sent them off, told them to hurry back home, now, and they did, leaving him with another flurry of  _ Thank-you’ _ s and  _ You’re the best, Mister Therion’ _ s, and he shrugged, nodding, hiding the pink of his cheeks in his scarf. 

He was kind of a shithead, as far as he was concerned, but there was no point in denying the opinions of children. If anything, cowardly little Therion couldn’t help but to take some satisfaction from their praise, to wrap himself in it and pretend for just a minute that it matched up with how he really was, as a person. 

_ You’re a fucking disgrace, Therion. _

Disgrace or not, he was hungry, and Alfyn would surely start looking for him if he took much longer. Therion turned on his heel and made his way over towards the tavern, weaving his way through passerby. Like he thought upon exiting the inn, the town really did seem to be more alive. Fishermen came and went to the docks, some with fresh catch dangling by the gills. Dogs clamored at their heels, children called after them, and women holding woven baskets chatted amongst each other as they made their way to the market. Therion blended in seamlessly, unnoticed by the majority of the crowd, and if they got to the markets and realized that they had a few fewer coins than they remembered, then who’s to say it was him? 

They’d probably be setting off soon anyways, so what did it matter?

The tavern came into sight, and, to his surprise, Alfyn did, too. He stood outside, having a lively conversation with a cute young woman. She was giggling at something he was saying, twirling a lock of copper hair. 

Therion couldn’t hear what they were talking about, exactly, but he could tell she was clearly quite interested in him, smiling coyly and blinking her lashes, and he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. How was it that everyone gravitated towards him like this, without him even trying?

Before he could get there, the woman left, giving a sweet little wave and a swish of her skirts. She passed him by on the dock, and gave him a vague smile, acknowledging him. He inclined his head. People didn't generally look at him with the same sort of interest that they regarded Alfyn with, so her lukewarm response didn't phase him much.

Alfyn caught sight of him, and his expression brightened exponentially, turning to greet him.

“... Chatting up women already?” Therion asked, a bit sarcastically, and Alfyn laughed awkwardly, falling into step as they went to enter the tavern. 

“Hah, apparently...” he sighed, holding the door for Therion. “She was friendly, though, so it wasn’t... y’know,  _ too _ bad.” 

“... Looked like she was hoping you’d take her into the back alley and ravish her, but sure, I guess that can count as ‘friendly’,” replied Therion, without thinking, and Alfyn burst out into a sharp, embarrassed laugh. 

“ _ Gods _ , Therion,” he groaned, shaking his head. “Don’t word it like  _ that _ . It’s bad enough that just about every girl in Clearbrook used ta flirt with me...” 

Therion picked a seat that put his back against the wall. Alfyn dropped into the chair across from him, immediately plunking an elbow onto the table. Though he wasn't there, he could practically hear Cyrus clicking his tongue at the sight. 

“... Can’t say I hear too many people  _ complain _ about that,” Therion muttered, glancing up as the barmaid came over to take their orders. Two lunch specials were ordered courtesy of Alfyn, which was fine by Therion. Food was food, as far as he was concerned, and he was fucking  _ hungry _ . 

“Guess not, huh?” Alfyn shrugged, giving a lopsided smile. “Look, don't get me wrong. The thought was pretty flatterin'. I just... y'know, don't really like girls  _ like that _ .”  

_ Oh.  _ Now it all made sense. 

“Ah well,” Alfyn sighed, shrugging again. “What can ya do. It’s not as if people can tell just by lookin’ who ya like. Which, y’know, is a good thing.”

_ What can ya do, indeed. _ Therion nodded, agreeing, and the barmaid returned with two mugs of steaming hot coffee. Alfyn thanked her as she set them in front of them, and she told them that their meals would be out shortly. That suited Therion well, considering how he was starting to notice the ache in his stomach once again. Being awake and walking for the majority of the night had burned through his energy something fierce. 

There was a little sugar bowl on the table, white with blue designs painted on it, and Alfyn plucked a couple of sugar cubes from it and deposited them in his coffee. Therion watched him add some cream after them, and a pale cloud bloomed over the center, dispelling around his spoon. The coffee went from black to a soft, light tan. 

Alfyn stirred it slowly, almost thoughtfully, spoon clinking on the side.

“What were ya doin’ back there, anyways?” he wondered, glancing up from his cup, and Therion shrugged.  _ Oh, you know. More goody-two-shoes shit, you know me. _

“Before I met you here? Nothing important. I just forgot something.” 

He knew, of course, that Alfyn would be absolutely overjoyed to hear that he had decided to pay the girls for their hard work, but the thought of Alfyn seeing him in such a positive light embarrassed him, so he chose not to say it.

Thankfully, Alfyn didn’t press him on the matter. He just made a soft  _ ah  _ from acknowledgement, blowing the steam from his coffee. The scent wafted over towards Therion, and the ache in his stomach grew more noticeable.

“... Thanks for bringin’ that girl to me, by the way,” Alfyn said, after a moment, and Therion’s attention was pulled back to him. “That really was one hell of a break. She could’ve survived without seein’ me, in theory, but... assumin’ she didn’t die from an infection or from damage from bone shards, she’d probably never walk normally again, if she could walk at all.” 

“... Don’t thank me,” Therion muttered, fixing his gaze on a painting on the wall. It was just a quick, rough rendition of the cathedral, with the waves at the foot of the canvas, but he pretended it was the most interesting thing in the world right then, to avoid Alfyn’s sincerity. “... What, do you think that I would have just left her there?” 

“No,” Alfyn replied, immediately, and Therion knew that he was being honest. “You like mindin’ your own business, sure, but I don’t think you’re really the kind’ve person to ignore someone in a situation like that when you know you can help  _ somehow _ .”

_ If you knew how many people in comparable states I've ignored... you probably wouldn't have said that. _

“...... Like I could help anyone with  _those_ kinds of injuries ,” he said, under his breath. It wasn’t quiet enough, though, since Alfyn just let out a small sigh through his nose. Through his peripheral vision, he could see that he had tilted his head. 

“Sure ya can. Maybe you couldn’t fix it yourself, but you brought her to me, who  _ can _ . So you helped her more than you think, Therion.” 

He didn’t say anything. What was there to say to that?  _ Alfyn  _ was the one who did all the work. He just played the part of the guide, of the coward who was too scared to keep running away, of the indecisive sentimental  _ moron _ who couldn’t decide what he really wanted, at the end of the day, and he hated it. 

Why couldn’t he just  _ know _ ?

“... You’re welcome, I guess,” he eventually mumbled, awkward, if only to make Alfyn stop  _ staring _ at him. Thankfully, he seemed satisfied with it.

“But, y’know... that kinda begs the question...” Alfyn ventured, a touch uncomfortable, and Therion suppressed the urge to get up and jump into the water outside. “... How  _ did _ ya find them?”

_ Ah. _ Therion had been dreading this question all day, and he still didn’t know exactly how to answer it (aside from telling the truth, because he was too weak to just own up and tell him that he had tried to run away). How _had_ he managed to find two travelers at that hour in the first place? One of them had injuries sustained from fending off a monster. Obviously there weren’t any monsters roaming inside of the town, aside from rowdy drunks and perhaps, at most, an aggressive stray dog or two. Certainly nothing that could twist her leg to the point of breaking it.

“I just... went out and... stumbled across them...” Therion said, slowly. None of that was a lie, technically.

“... Uh-huh,” came Alfyn’s reply, indicating that he wanted him to go on, and Therion swallowed. 

“... What? That’s how I found them.”

Alfyn blinked. “I mean... Yeah, that probably is exactly how you found ‘em.”

_ So there’s no problem here... _ thought Therion, knowing full well that Alfyn wasn’t done with him yet.

“... But...” Alfyn continued, tracing an index finger over the rim of his cup. “I just find the whole situation incredibly  _ weird _ , y’know? They were walkin’ for a long time, by what I could get from ‘em.” 

“Mhm... They walked all the way here, and I just so happened to be out to point them in the direction of the inn.”

“Therion...” Alfyn sighed, and Therion shut his mouth. “C’mon, tell me the truth.” 

“Well, if you’ve already figured it out, then why don’t you just say it?” snapped Therion, and Alfyn gave a small, uncomfortable smile.

“... I kinda... I mean, it wasn't too hard to piece together,” he replied, quietly. “You were fully dressed.”

“Maybe I just went out for a walk,” rebuked Therion, almost instinctively, and Alfyn cocked his head.

“Before the sun was even up?” 

“Y-yeah. Maybe I couldn’t sleep.”

“Okay, but with all your stuff packed...?” he asked, and Therion knew that he knew. 

Why did he always try to worm his way out of things, rather than just admitting that he fucked up?

It's not as if Alfyn would hurt him... right?

By then, Therion figured that he probably wouldn't. After all, there were plenty of other opportunities where he could have, very easily. He had slept in the same room as him, near his bedroll in the woods, sat near him at the tavern. His guard seemed to be down just as often as it was raised around him, really, with his mind wandering and his back turned to him, and he really only just realized how lax he’d gotten. Even then, his hands were nowhere near his weapons. He’d given him dozens, possibly hundreds of opportunities to stick his axe in his neck, poison his drink, mix crushed glass into his food,  _ bring him to a cliff and watch the sunset with him and kiss him and steal his dagger and stab him and—  _

_ Don’t. Don’t think about this again, please. _

Long story short, he could have killed him. Yet, he hadn't thus far, regardless of how rude and how shitty Therion could be. 

But, Therion also knew that it took some time before  _ he  _ had become violent with him, so he supposed that it was still possible. Maybe.

“Therion...” Alfyn prompted, gently, and a ripple of guilt washed through his core. “Did you try to run away last night?”

And while Therion  _ knew _ that Alfyn has probably guessed that right from the start, that he had probably been thinking about it all day, it still smacked him like a brick to the stomach. His pulse raced, his skin felt clammy and itchy, and he knew that there was no escape now from this. Alfyn knew.

“... What if I did...?” he asked, unusually small, and Alfyn’s eyes clouded further. 

The air between them felt uncomfortable. 

“... Well...” he exhaled, and the lack of a smile hurt in a way that Therion didn’t quite anticipate. “... I mean, I figured as much. Ain't too many other reasons why you'd be up that early, dressed, lookin’ as tired as you did.” 

He didn't look tearful, thankfully, but the hurt rolled off of him in waves, and it felt just as shitty as when he had been apologizing for offending him, tail between legs, practically begging for him to forgive him.  

Now, Therion was on the other side. He hurt Alfyn, this time, and while that should have been better in theory... 

... Somehow, it almost felt  _ worse _ .

“I... I came back, though,” Therion said, terse but quiet, just this side of ashamed. “I know that that doesn’t— I mean, I still...  _ left _ , but... I came  _ back _ . “ 

Alfyn looked up, over his mug, and nodded slowly. His expression was complicated, unsurprisingly, still wounded, but something in him relaxed. He still wasn’t satisfied, though. 

Therion shouldn’t have cared, but the sight bothered him regardless. While some large part of him wanted to just let Alfyn feel whatever he liked about this, he still ended up with the bitterness of guilt sitting inside of his chest instead, and he sighed. 

“I mean... yeah, I didn’t...  _ plan _ on... coming back,” Therion acquiesced, almost inaudibly. “... But, I did anyways. So... um... y-y’know...” 

Alfyn’s expression softened slightly, but he still remained silent.

Another long, long silence stretched between them. The chatter of the other patrons blurred into nothing as Therion chewed on the inside of his cheek, waiting for Alfyn to carry on. 

He didn’t, and Therion was starting to get very,  _ very _ uncomfortable.

Another minute passed. By then, he could take it no longer. He gripped his cup tightly enough to hurt, looking fixedly at the table, and sighed out a noise close to a snarl.

“Theri—” 

“I— look. I’m... I’m fucking  _ sorry _ , okay?! S-so stop  _ looking _ at me like that!” 

He didn’t quite shout, but the forcefulness of his voice was enough to silence the nearest tables. They all instinctively glanced over, curious at the sudden noise. Therion’s face burned red from humiliation as he sank deeper into his seat, realizing that he had let his emotions run out of control. 

_ It’s just because you’re overtired... _ he thought, scowling until their attention turned back to their conversations.  _ You’ve only gotten, what, five hours of sleep in the past thirty-plus hours...? Of course you’re going to be moody. _

As he thought this, a warm hand touched the back of his fingers.

He twitched from surprise, focusing back on Alfyn, and found that he was smiling gently at him.

“... Hey,” he said, tone soothing, and Therion felt some of his irritation ebb away. “... Thanks for the apology.”

He thanked him, sincere and kind, and took his hand away.

Then, he lifted his cup and took a sip of his coffee, savouring it. 

And... that was it?

Therion blinked, stunned, confused beyond belief. Alfyn had... accepted his apology. No fussing, no fighting, no bickering, no anger.

Why had Therion been expecting something different?

As he thought about this, Alfyn noticed his stillness and tilted his head, concerned. 

“What’s up?” he inquired, with nothing but worry shining in his eyes, and it was enough to embarrass Therion into looking away. He locked his gaze on his cup, staring at his reflection in the coffee. “Somethin’ botherin’ you?” 

“... Kin... da...” he eventually admitted.  _ Fuck it _ . Why not just tell him, instead of beating around the bush, for once. See what happens.

“Aw, shit, bud,” he sympathized, and while Therion wasn’t looking, he knew that his full, undivided attention was locked on him right then. “Anythin’ I can help you with?” 

Therion stayed silent for a moment, wondering how best to articulate his thoughts. Words had never really been his strong suit... especially ones that weren’t meant to be cruel, defensive.

“... Why are you...  _ okay _ with this?” he asked, after a pause, and he glanced back up when Alfyn didn't reply. By what he could see, he wasn't sure what he was asking. “... With... I dunno, with me leaving? I thought you'd be pissed.”

Alfyn nodded from understanding, drinking in another sip of coffee. “Ah, that. Well... I mean, I'm not  _ happy _ .”

“That I left, or that I came back?” wondered Therion, receiving a mildly scandalised expression from Alfyn. 

“Gods, Therion, that you  _ left _ , silly,” 

He said it so emphatically that Therion felt a bit stupid for suggesting it in the first place. He went to take a sip of coffee to disguise it, and wrinkled his nose from distaste. In his distraction, he had forgotten to add anything to it. 

Alfyn’s eyes softened, and he smiled, motioning towards Therion’s cup. “How do you take your coffee, anyways?” 

“Definitely not  _ black _ ,” Therion muttered, dropping some sugar cubes into his cup. 

“D’you add cream to it?” Alfyn wondered, and Therion blinked. He hadn’t, before then.

“... Cream’s expensive,” he said, shrugging. “Never got the chance to try it in coffee.” _ Since coffee can be expensive too. _

Alfyn’s response was to hold out his cup.

“Try some a mine, then,” he offered. “So you don’t ruin yours by addin’ it only to realize you don’t like it all that much.” 

This scene felt familiar to Therion, by then, with Alfyn offering him a drink and him hesitating, him staring blankly at the contents, but he accepted it anyways, taking in a small mouthful to sample. 

Alfyn burst out laughing when he saw Therion’s eyes widen over the rim of the cup.

“See?” he quipped, as Therion passed his cup back and immediately started adding cream to his own coffee. “It’s good. Mellows it out a lot.” 

It  _ was _ good. Therion had been decidedly neutral towards coffee before then, provided that he could at least add sugar or honey to it, but this added an entirely new level to it. The acidity was gone, thanks to the cream, making it wonderfully smooth and rich on the tongue.

“Shit, if you haven’t even tried coffee with cream in it, you’re in for a real treat when you get to a place that makes mochas,” Alfyn continued, enthusiastically. The barmaid came by with their lunches while he was talking, and he thanked her as she set down their plates. “Mochas are pretty expensive, since they’re coffee with chocolate added, but  _ fuck me _ are they ever good.”

Coffee with  _ chocolate _ added? Therion almost felt himself salivate at the thought.

But, in the meantime, lunch had arrived, and he was decidedly puzzled as to what it was, exactly. They each had a sliced bagel, with cream cheese on top. That much he could gather. However, the orange meat on top of it threw him for a loop. At least, he presumed that it was meat. It didn’t appear to be another sort of cheese, as far as he could tell. 

Alfyn saw his confusion and giggled. 

“I’m gonna guess you haven’t tried lox before, either,” he supposed, and Therion glanced up.

“Locks...?” he repeated, receiving a nod.

“Yeah, lox. It’s a cold-smoked salmon that’s been sliced suuuper thin,” he said, delicately plucking a piece from off of his bagel. True to his word, it was cut so finely that light shone through it. “It’s pretty salty by itself, but the cream cheese mellows it out a lot. An’ judgin’ by the colour... I’d say this is steelhead. So it should be pretty mild.” 

“Why do you know all of this?” Therion asked, picking up one of the halves of his lunch. It didn’t  _ look _ bad. 

“Ah, one a my neighbours would make lox for us every so often,” Alfyn explained. “There’s tons of salmon in the ocean, and sometimes in the river, when it’s spawnin’ season. So he’d go out and catch some, an’ bring ‘em back to smoke for my Ma an’ I.”

He concluded that by taking a bite out of his bagel, and Therion gingerly followed suit. He quickly found that Alfyn had been right— that it was a bit salty, but the cream cheese took away some of the bite. There was, unsurprisingly, a bit of a fishy flavour, but it was mild, like Alfyn had said.

Overall, it was surprisingly good.

One of the patrons complained that it was getting warm in there, and a couple of side windows were opened to create airflow. A soft breeze came in through the windows, carrying the scent of sunlight and of the sea, as well as the sound of the waves lapping at the docks. Therion looked out the main window as they ate, observing the scenery. Couples walked by, chatting together as the wind pulled at their hats. Seagulls creaked out their cries as they wheeled around the fishing ships, preened on the posts of the quay. The skies were brilliantly blue, the ocean a deeper and darker azure, and things... felt peaceful, somehow, even after everything that had happened yesterday.

The barmaid took their empty plates with a smile and said she’d be back in a moment to give them their bill. 

“... To continue along with what we were talkin’ about earlier,” Alfyn said, slowly, as if he regretted disturbing the atmosphere. “Y’know, before I forget.”

Therion didn’t look away from the window, but he nodded.  _ Here we go. _

“Just, ah... I do want you to know that...  _ yeah _ , I am disappointed, I guess. That you’d just... leave without sayin’ anything.”

“... I didn’t...  _ promise _ that I'd say anything, though,” Therion replied, but the excuse sounded pathetic, even to his ears. 

He made the mistake of looking over at Alfyn then, something he really ought to have learned  _ not _ to do, in the middle of conversations like this, and he was met with such a soft, sad expression that it made his heart feel shaky. Alfyn wasn’t looking at him.

“.... Yeah, I guess not,” he admitted, quietly. “... I guess I just figured that you... wouldn’t anyways, even though you said that you wouldn’t make any promises about it.” 

“... I  _ said _ sorry, though...” Therion muttered, and Alfyn gave a tiny, humourless laugh.

“Yeah. You did. An’ I appreciate it, y’know? Thanks again. It means a lot to hear you apologize for it.” 

“You’re... still not satisfied, though...” said Therion, and Alfyn gave a slight shake of the head. 

“... Well... I mean...”

He wasn’t. He didn’t need to say it for Therion to know that he wasn’t. 

“... Yeah, you’re right,” Alfyn acquiesced. “I mean... again, I’m thankful you apologized. I’ve accepted it. An’... y’know, I’ll probably start feelin’ completely better soon enough.”

Therion nodded.

“But in the meantime...” Alfyn continued, plucking a sugar cube to fiddle with. “... I’m gonna be a little bit hurt, y’know? I mean, you’re  _ right _ , you didn’t  _ technically _ promise anythin’. So, ah... some a this is probably my own fault. Me assumin’ that you wouldn’t run off... was my fault. I can’t hold  _ that _ against ya.”

_ I hurt him. _

“... It’s...  _ stupid  _ to put that much faith in someone like me,” Therion muttered, after a pause, and Alfyn looked over. 

“No, I wouldn’t say it’s stupid at all,” Alfyn replied, gently. “You’ve got a good sense of honour, y’know? I mean, there’s nothin’ sayin’ that you  _ have _ to get the dragonstones back, technically. You could’ve broken your bangle off and ran away, right from the start. You could’ve run away dozens of times before now.” 

He was right, and Therion knew it. 

“... The bangle is my own fault. I’m not going to take the loser’s way out from that.”

“And that’s noble, y’know? H’aanit’s right. You’ve got a sense of nobility in ya.” 

Nobility felt like too strong a word for Therion, in his eyes. Pride, maybe.

“And I didn’t run away all those other times because the timing wasn’t right. It was... I dunno, too cold, or too isolated, or I was too sick. ... I still thought about it, though.”

Alfyn nodded. “Yeah. You thought about it, but you didn't do it. And, before ya say it,  _ yeah _ , you did, in fact, _ actually _ run away this time. But...” 

_ I came back. _

“... You came back,” Alfyn echoed his thoughts, slightly sad and slightly happy both, and the bittersweetness leached into Therion and lingered, sat heavy on his tongue like burnt sugar. He felt strange. His heart ached somewhat, for whatever reason. 

“I... only came back because that girl needed your help,” Therion said, pretending that he hadn’t  _ also _ been feeling off without their presences, without their incessant prattle, chatter,  _ kindness _ . “... That’s it.” 

Alfyn’s focus flicked back towards him, and the sun caught on his eyes, illuminating all the flecks of green and gold within them. 

“... That so?” 

Therion definitely heard his tone, and scoffed. “You don’t believe me.... don’t you?” 

Alfyn didn’t smile, but he nodded. His expression wasn’t hostile by any means.

“... Yeah. I don’t.”

_ Even after all this, you’ll try to believe that there’s some good left in me...? _

_ Why? _

“... What makes you think that?” 

Alfyn smiled. “Because you’re  _ here _ , aren’t ya?”

And, just like that, Therion's protests were destroyed. It was so... simple. The mere fact that Therion was sitting at his table, drinking coffee and trying new foods with him, talking and resting, not  _ entirely _ hating his company... meant that he didn’t really intend to leave again. 

Not  _ yet _ .

“Uh,  _ yeah _ , genius. Didn’t you say that lunch was on you if I showed up?” 

He said it, and it was true, to a degree, but Alfyn just smiled a bit wider, like he always did whenever he had caught Therion’s bluffs, and he knew that it was over.

“Uh-huh, but I know you enough by now to know that if ya didn’t wanna be here... y’know, if you  _ really _ wanted to run away for good... you would’ve done so, after hearin’ that I’d be at the tavern— and therefore  _ not _ supervisin’ you. You had... plenty of chances to run, before now.”

_ And yet... I’m here _ , Therion thought, completing his unspoken sentence. He was there for the free food, certainly. He hadn’t really been lying about that.

But (and he'd never admit it,  _ least _ of all to him), being accompanied by Alfyn once more wasn't all bad. Missing him was too strong a word, but... well...

_ This is just for convenience's sake. _

The barmaid took their plates away, and Alfyn’s focus turned to her, chatting away about the food, how good it was, how nice the coffee was, and yeah, they were paying together, thanks. He passed her some leaves, adding in a generous tip, and Therion almost felt embarrassed to listen to her enthusiastic words of thanks, emphatically telling him to  _ please _ come again. It felt somewhat similar to when he had given the sisters money for their hard work, to the gratitude that they had felt, and he realized that, between the two of them, the town had probably never been happier.

Or, at least, thanks to  _ one _ of them, and it sure as hell wasn’t himself.

Alfyn looked over at him once again, and he smiled. He finally looked more like himself, after all the hell that he had been through, and Therion felt relieved and guilty both, appeased at his forgiveness and ashamed that he had caused him to look so downtrodden in the first place, and he didn’t know what to think.

He never... really knew what to think, with Alfyn.

“You good?” Alfyn asked, motioning to the rest of the tavern, and Therion shrugged.

“... Guess so,” 

He shot him a grin, and slid out of his chair. 

“Alright. Let’s get outta here, shall we?”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

It took almost until it was time for dinner before the girl and the soldier stirred from their sleep. 

Ophilia had woken up some time before then, as she had only needed a nap. At that moment, she was sitting on Alfyn’s bed, chatting with the occupants of the room (or, more accurately, the aforementioned occupant plus H’aanit— Therion was playing his usual game of  _ let’s-pretend-I’m-too-engrossed-in-sharpening-my-dagger-to-care _ , and eavesdropping all the while anyways), when a head peeked around the open door. Therion had been expecting it to be Cyrus, who had left to get water for tea, but rather it was the girl that Therion had found, small hand clutching the frame.

“Ah, um... ‘s-scuse me,” she said, awkwardly, and Ophilia and Alfyn both stood up almost immediately.

“O-oh my!” Ophilia exclaimed, rushing over. “Dear girl, you’re awake!” 

“You okay?” asked Alfyn, staying back. Though he stayed put, Therion could see that, the instant that he deemed her too wobbly, he’d cross the room and steady her. “How’s your leg feelin’?”

“Y-yeah, thanks,” she said, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. She looked as if she had just awoken, with her hat missing and her hair loose. “And my leg’s doing okay... Way,  _ way _ better than it was, that’s for sure.” 

“Aw, hey, that’s great to hear!” Alfyn exclaimed, flashing a wonderfully bright smile. “Ophilia did a great job healin’ it, so I’m not shocked to hear you’re doin’ better!” 

“Oh, heavens,” Ophilia scoffed, lightly. “I couldn’t have done a  _ thing  _ if you hadn’t set it back in place first, Alfyn. Had only one of us been here, this young lady’s condition wouldn’t be anywhere near this good.” 

_ Yeah, yeah, we get it... _ thought Therion, idly scraping a nick from the blade of his dagger.  _ Both of you are so amazing and good at helping people.  _

“Fie, girl, do cometh in and maketh thineself at home,” H’aanit called, motioning her in. “Linde may seemeth imposing, but I shalt promise thee that she shalle not biten thee.” 

The girl seemed a bit taken aback at her dialect, but nodded, picking her way into the room a bit nervously. Therion supposed that he couldn’t really blame her. Though two of them had helped to heal her, she was still walking into a room filled with strangers (plus a snow leopard), all of whom seemed to be at  _ least _ several years older than her. 

She then caught sight of Therion, sitting small and curled at the head of his bed with his dagger, and her expression brightened somewhat. He sighed inwardly, already dreading whatever embarrassing nonsense she would surely dump upon him (like everyone  _ else _ seemed so fond of doing all the damn time) and gave a vague, lazy wave.  _ Congrats, you found me. Here I am. _

“Oh!” she exclaimed, smiling for the first time. “Hey, you’re the guy that brought us here!”

“... That’s me,” he replied, awkwardly, and Alfyn shot him a prideful look. He couldn’t decide whether her excitement or Alfyn’s satisfied smile was more humiliating, and he avoided looking at either of them. 

“Yeah! So, uh, I wanted to say thank you! Y’know, for helping to save my life!” 

Therion’s head sunk a touch lower in his scarf. “... Don’t thank me for that. All I did was let you guys follow me.”

The girl put her hands on her hips. It seemed that she had some zest to her, Therion realized. “Uh,  _ yeah _ , but we followed you all the way back here, to your friend!”

“‘Your friend’? Didja really say that, Therion?” Alfyn gasped, and Therion scowled, burrowing himself deeper into his scarf. 

“ _ No _ , I  _ didn’t _ .”  _ Not directly, at least. _

It was too late, though. Alfyn was delighted nonetheless, giggling on his bed, and Therion felt like he might actually die from embarrassment.

“Awww, Therion... You’re my friend, too, y’know?” 

**_Everyone_ ** _ is your friend, dumbass.  _ “... M-mhm...” 

H’aanit gave a short laugh. “Oh, comen now, admitten it to thyself. Alfyn is thine friend, Therion.” 

_ I can’t  _ **_have_ ** _ friends, though... _ he thought, scowling at her. Fine, whatever, so maybe he didn’t  _ hate _ Alfyn, but he wasn’t his  _ friend _ . 

Flynn pointing up at him and asking if he was a friend of Alfyn’s echoed in his memory. 

_ Why does everyone seem to think that he’s my friend? _

_ Or even that I  _ **_want_ ** _ to be friends with him? _

“Pardon me...” a new voice called, from the doorway, and everyone turned to look. The soldier was there, lingering awkwardly, and Alfyn grinned, waving him in.

“Heya! Good to see you up n’ at ‘em!” he called, amiable as ever. The soldier bowed his head slightly and entered the room, which was starting to get (according to Therion) quite crowded, with all of them crammed in there. He seemed aware of this and lingered close to one of the walls, trying to take up as little room as possible. 

_ Not that a guy like that  _ **_can_ ** _ really take up any less space... _ thought Therion, studying him. Even out of his armour, he was no less imposing of a figure.  _ He’s gotta be at least six foot five. He’s fucking huge. _

“Yes, it seems that a rest was all that I needed,” he said, in response to Alfyn’s last words. “She is quite light, but carrying anyone for a distance that long is tiring...”

_ Do you ever bonk your head on doorframes...? _ Therion wondered, staring up at him.  _ Where do you buy clothes? _

“Ooh, don’t I know it,” Alfyn agreed, nodding. Therion knew what he was referring to, and suppressed the urge to scoff. “But hey, we’re all here now, yeah? Speakin’ of which, I haven’t introduced myself, huh? The name’s Alfyn. You, uh, know this by now, but I’m an apothecary.” 

“... Olberic,” the soldier said, shaking his hand. Alfyn’s hands were large, but his seemed even larger. “I... suppose you could say that I’m a sellsword, at the moment.”

“Tressa Colzione!” the girl replied, doing a clumsy curtsey. “I’m a merchant from Rippletide, and I’m pleased to meet you!” 

_ So you really are a merchant? Even though you look like you’re about fifteen years old? _

“Well, Olberic, Tressa, it’s great to meet you guys!” Alfyn replied, warmly. “Make yourselves right at home, alright? Wherever you wanna sit.” 

As they did so, with Olberic staying at the wall and Tressa plunking down at the foot of Therion’s bed (and disregarding his scowl), the rest of the occupants started to introduce themselves. They all shook hands, chatted pleasantly amongst themselves.

Then, their attention turned towards him, and Therion sighed. Great,  _ more _ people he had to entrust his name to. He should have figured that this would happen, really. It always did. 

Why did these people  _ care _ about him?

He stayed silent, and Alfyn chuckled. 

“That would be Therion,” he said, for him, and he received a rather nasty glare in return. “He seems cold, but he’s actually pretty nice!” 

_ I’m right here, you know. _ “... You feeling okay? Don’t think anyone’s ever called me  _ nice _ before.” 

“... Judging by your kindness to guide us to Goldshore, despite the fact that you had already come from there, I daresay that I’m inclined to agree with Alfyn,” Olberic said, shaking Therion’s hand. As he had suspected, his hand was huge, almost completely wrapping around Therion’s own. “... I am indebted to your generosity.” 

Therion nodded, muttering something that sounded vaguely like  _ yeah, yeah, whatever _ . He felt like crawling beneath the bed. Everyone’s eyes were on him, and the sensation of every person in the room being proud of him for doing the right thing made his skin itch. 

It wasn’t  _ unbearable _ , though. Close to it, perhaps, but not quite.

“Yeah! I’m grateful, too!” Tressa enthused, reaching up the bed to shake his hand. “I mean, without your help, who  _ knows  _ what would’ve happened to me?”

He reluctantly took her hand. The contrast between Olberic’s bear paw and her miniature little palm was, admittedly, a little amusing.

Reaching forwards ended up revealing his bangle, chain clinking. Her eyes fixated on it at once, delighted smile morphing into something nearing outrage, and he very nearly laughed at her reaction.  _ Surprise. Your knight in shining armour is actually a shithead in a shiny bangle. _

“Hey, wait a minute...!” Tressa exclaimed, pulling her hand back suspiciously. “You’re not just a traveler. You're a th—”

“Good evening,” Cyrus interrupted, cheery as ever. “Please forgive me for the wait. I got quite distracted, you see, conversing with a fellow at the well...” 

He came in then, holding a pot of boiling water, and Therion watched him carry it over to the table, setting it down on a folded towel. It held enough water to make tea for them all. 

“Now, what do all of you think of rosehip and hibiscus?” Cyrus asked, receiving a discordant chorus of _uhhh'_ s from the room at large. Apparently, for once, Therion was not the only one who had never tried something.

“Well!” exclaimed Cyrus, laughing delicately. “That’s quite alright. This is one of my favourites, personally. Since none of you seem to have sampled it, did you wish for me to make it?”

“Hey, why the hells not, huh?” quipped Alfyn, nodding. “I’m always down to try all the fancy shit you’re into.” 

Though profanities were hardly something new to come from Alfyn’s mouth, Cyrus still faltered slightly at his tastes being referred to as “fancy shit”. Therion stifled a snort as he stammered something unintelligible out. Tressa giggled. 

A slightly flustered Cyrus took out a package of tea bags and unwound the string holding it shut. It seemed that it was only recently purchased, as it was still full. 

“Oh, please allow me to help you with that, Professor,” Ophilia said, rising from her place on Alfyn’s bed. Sisters of the Church loved to help, Therion knew, and Ophilia took any opportunity to be kind, if she could. 

“Why, thank you kindly, Ophilia,” Cyrus replied, allowing her to take the cups and the ladle to start filling them with hot water. Cyrus took out seven tea bags from the packet, setting it aside, and Therion was shocked at how, once again, the group had grown without him even realizing it. Six other people sharing his space, breathing his air, talking with him and sleeping near him and knowing his face, knowing his name, knowing that he was a  _ thief. _

Granted, only one person here so far seemed to be explicitly upset by that fact. H’aanit may have pinned him to the floor, but that was less to do with her own personal opinions than her duty as sheriff of the fucking town, or something. This new girl, however ( _ Tressa, right...? _ ), had resumed glaring at his wrist, as if the shackle would disappear if she stared hard enough at it. Therion decided that, based on her reaction, she was perhaps the most sensible person in the room.

The thought made him want to sigh. What kind of people was he hanging out with if a fifteen-odd-year-old girl seemed to have the most  _ common sense _ ?

The cups were filled with water, and Ophilia set about passing them out to everyone. Cyrus contented himself with doling out tea bags to each of the people in the room. Therion accepted his cup of water and his tea and he sniffed it. Floral. He wasn’t sure what a hibiscus was, exactly, but he supposed that it might also have been a flower. On second thought, what were rosehips? He knew what roses were, but...

“Oh, heavens, where are my manners...?” tutted Cyrus, flashing Tressa a lovely smile. “Pardon me for not introducing myself sooner. My name is Professor Cyrus Albright. I am a—”  _ blah blah blah blah _ , Therion didn’t care.  _ He should just get a business card if he insists on spouting the same drivel every time he has to interact with someone for longer than a minute... _

“Whoa, a professor! Cool!” Tressa grinned, after their introductions were complete. “That’s so cool. Some of my neighbours studied in Atlasdam! I wonder if they knew you...”

_ Atlasdam is a pretty big city, by what I know...  _ thought Therion, rolling his eyes.  _ The likelihood is sort of low, don’t you think...? _

They finished their introductions, and Cyrus’s attention shifted towards Olberic. Therion had to stifle a coughing laugh at the tiny flash of approval in his eyes.  _ Like what you see, Professor...? _

Alfyn shot him a puzzled glance, and Therion pretended that he was too engrossed in getting his tea bag in his cup to notice. Gods, he was pleased to have this knowledge in his grasp. Blackmail wasn’t really something he partook in often, but being able to  say that he, for once, had  _ something  _ over that preppy menace of a professor... felt pretty damn good, honestly. 

“And who might you be, sir?” Cyrus asked, passing a tea bag to him. “A soldier, I’d presume?” 

_ Oh, you’d presume? Might you also presume that he’s single, that he’s a Pisces, and that he likes long walks on the beach?  _

“... Your presumption is correct, mostly,” Olberic nodded, giving a vague smile. “My kingdom may have fallen, but the training remains nonetheless. I suppose that I fall under the category of sellsword, nowadays.” 

_ Nice one, Cyrus. _ Therion idly blew on his cup to disguise his smirk.  _ King of smooth, aren’t you? _

“Your kingdom has... oh dear, please forgive my rudeness,” Cyrus faltered, a touch awkwardly, but Olberic just exhaled something on the verge of a pitying laugh. 

“... There is no need to apologize. Eight years have passed, so I cannot hold it much against you.” 

“I see... eight years—” Cyrus started, then stopped, abruptly, eyes widening as he realized something. “D-do hold on for a minute. What did... you say that your name was...?”

“Olberic. Olberic Eisenberg.” 

The sound of a cup falling to the ground silenced the room, save for an audible snicker from Therion. Ophilia shot him a reprimanding glare in response, shaking her head. Cyrus had been so startled that he had dropped his tea, and now he looked as if he might pass out from mortification. 

“H- _ heavens _ , I am...  _ so _ sorry,” Cyrus stammered, the most embarrassed that Therion had ever seen him. “M-my most sincere apologies... I... ah... um... P-please allow me to clean this up...” 

He crouched down almost timidly after that, and Olberic followed, carefully picking up shards. This only seemed to humiliate Cyrus further. 

“O-oh, ah, y-you... Please, sir, you don’t... need to bother with—” 

“... Fret not so much about this, Professor. We all make mistakes.” 

Cyrus and Olberic picked up the pieces of the broken cup, while Alfyn tossed them a cloth to wipe up the water with. Cyrus was so ashamed that he almost seemed like he might cry, but he just laughed awkwardly and took the shards to the wastebasket. Olberic did the same. He seemed rather unruffled by this whole thing, if a bit remorseful for seemingly intimidating the professor. 

“So what happened eight years ago, anyhow?” wondered Alfyn, blowing on his tea. “Since that seemed to make you remember somethin’, Cyrus.” 

“W-well!” Cyrus exclaimed, a bit brusquely. “Ah, uh, w-well...”

Apparently he interpreted “what happened eight years ago” as “please teach an impromptu class on the history of Orsterra, give us homework, and remind us that the test is on Friday”, and he launched into a rather passionate description of the kingdoms of Orsterra and the events leading up to the war. Apparently the event he recognized was the fall of the Kingdom of Hornburg, which was something that everyone in the room, Therion included, had certainly heard of. Still, despite Therion’s half-serious internal debate on just laying down for a nap and sleeping through the tirade, he supposed that it wasn’t  _ unbearable _ to learn these things. 

Boring, yes, but not agonizing. 

Olberic, unsurprisingly, already knew about the vast majority of what Cyrus was saying. Therion supposed that, therefore, he logically should have looked the most bored out of them all. However, he, too, listened to Cyrus’s explanations with interest. 

“Hornburg was a kingdom that had its roots steeped not only in the arts of magic and the divine, but in combat and in its military power,” lectured Cyrus, with an enthusiastic smile. Despite everything, Therion couldn’t really say anything bad about his genuine love for teaching others. He had never had any formal education, but he supposed that, if his parents had both survived, then perhaps he might have been able to, and if he did, he might have liked having Cyrus as a teacher. “Due to the heavy emphasis on having powerful military defenses, Hornburg had a sizeable army. Due to that, and to the rigorous training that all soldiers were made to endure, Hornburg produced many exemplary soldiers, many of whom remain lauded for their historical achievements to this day.” 

“Professor...” H’aanit said, eyes focused on Olberic. “... Art thou saying that Sir Olberic art one such soldier?”

Everyone’s eyes turned towards Olberic, who sighed slightly. It seemed that, despite this possibly being true, he didn’t love the limelight. Therion supposed that he couldn’t blame him.

“Not just any soldier,” Cyrus said, admiringly. “But rather one of the Twin Blades of Hornburg, a legendary duo of knights. Sir Olberic the Unbending, the unbreakable iron wall, considered to be one of the most famous knights of our modern era. Frankly,” Cyrus continued, turning towards Olberic then. “Many historians had assumed that the Twin Blades were lost to the kingdom’s fall, myself included. I see that that is apparently not the case.” 

“... Yes, all of what the professor speaks of is true,” Olberic nodded. “I am indeed Olberic the Unbending, former knight of Hornburg. ... How strange it is to finally say it aloud to others beyond brigands and bandits.”

“Therion’s a bandit,” Tressa muttered, glancing back at him. He rolled his eyes and drank more of his tea, not bothering to grace her with a response. This tea wasn’t so bad, he decided, though very different from the strong brews that Alfyn steeped for them.

“So long as he is not evil, I shan’t worry much about that,” Olberic replied, shrugging. “Therion had the decency to help us, fool’s bangle or no, so I choose to overlook that.” 

“Therion has a streak of kindness within him,” Ophilia affirmed, smiling sweetly. “Think of him as a chestnut.” 

Cyrus giggled over his teacup. “Clever comparison, Ophilia. Yes, I do suppose that that is an apt way to describe our dear Therion.” 

“Spiky on the outside...” mused Alfyn, nodding. “But with somethin’ sweet nestled inside. Under, y’know, another hard shell.” 

“Aye, he aren very much liken a chestnut, then,” agreed H’aanit, to Therion’s chagrin. He scoffed, rolling his eyes.  _ Great. Guess I'm Nut Boy now. _

“Though, Therion, I do have to say...” Cyrus continued, smiling. “I am decidedly impressed by how you not only managed to find these two in the first place, but how you somehow stumbled across one of the most important figures in modern history, despite the fact that the continent hadn’t heard even a whisper of his name in those eight years since.”

“... You give me too much credit,” Olberic said, glancing away, and Therion swore that his cheeks looked a bit pinker. “I was simply doing my duty. The fact that I survived many of those battles was due to luck, and the efforts of my teammate.” 

“Sir Erhardt,” Cyrus replied, and something seemed to change in Olberic, at the sound of his name. “The Blazing Blade of Hornburg... the other half of the Twin Blades. Is that it...?”

“... Yes, that would be it,” Olberic sighed, and he seemed older, somehow, worn beyond his years at the sound of his name. “Truth be told, I have actually been searching for him. Recent rumours of his re-emergence have been circulating, and I intend to find him once more.” 

Something seemed off about that, somehow, and Therion frowned over his cup. Olberic’s stoic expression cracked in every instance that he spoke of Erhardt, rippling with something like fondness and sadness both, and Therion couldn’t help but to wonder.

“... If you two were partners... then why don’t you know where he is anymore...?” wondered Therion, and Olberic glanced over, mouth pressed into a line. 

“... Though I am... ah, fairly certain that you were not paying much attention to the professor’s lesson...” Olberic started, and several people in the room snickered. “... The knight that betrayed the kingdom and slaughtered the king was none other than Erhardt himself.”

_ Betrayal. _ The word made Therion’s eye sting, made his stomach hurt, and he understood. 

“.... So he killed the king, and ran off,” Therion supposed, and Olberic nodded. 

“Just so. He committed regicide, and we dueled after that. I lost that fight, and I received this scar on my forehead from his blade.” 

The scar above his left temple was noticeable, even in the fading afternoon light. Therion felt something close to sympathy at the sight, feeling the ache of his own beneath his hair. 

“... You’re trying to find him to get revenge,” Therion supposed, and he received a surprisingly long pause from Olberic, considering his words. 

It made no sense to Therion. Why did he need to  _ think  _ about it?

“... I cannot say, truth be told,” he said, eventually. “I should like to talk with him, at the very least. After all, I received no explanation, after he had slain the king. He refused to answer my questions, and I hadn’t the means to find him sooner. Therefore... I cannot say that my sole purpose in finding him is simply killing him.” 

“A pragmatic answer,” nodded Cyrus, solemnly. “People are capable of heinous acts, often for unknown motives. If we are fortunate, then uncovering the motives... can clarify their reasoning in deciding to commit such an act.” 

“... And sometimes people are just dicks,” replied Therion, bitterly, and Cyrus nodded. 

“Though I may not word it  _ exactly _ like that, you are absolutely right, Therion. There are a good many people out there who simply...  _ do  _ things, without an apparent external source of motivation.” 

_ Don’t I know it... _ thought Therion, suppressing a sigh. 

_ Don’t I fucking know it. _

“... Having said that, Sir Olberic, if you wish...” Cyrus ventured, and his tone nearly became shy. “... All of us are traveling together, and we will be passing through a good many of the towns and the cities along Orsterra. Therefore... if you might wish for some company, whilst you attempt to locate Sir Erhardt...”

Why did Therion genuinely listen in for his answer, as if he were wondering if he might decline Cyrus’s offer? He knew the procedure, by now. One of them would offer to allow them to join in their awful little mess of travelers ( _ ‘little’ isn’t the right word. We’re a stupidly  _ **_large_ ** _ mess of travelers, now _ .), they would heartily accept, and Therion would, shockingly, have to get used to  _ even more people _ bothering him at all godsdamned hours of the day, and he couldn’t believe it. 

Why was  _ he _ somehow the reason why the majority of these yahoos had joined their party....?

“... Truly?” Olberic wondered, eyebrows raising. “It wouldn’t be a bother to you, to have me in your company?” 

_ It’s a bother to me, like usual. Not that anyone cares. _

“ _ Certainly _ not!” Cyrus said, almost too quickly, and Therion sighed. Oh, so the main reason why Cyrus wanted him around was so he could interview him to hell and back, wasn’t it? Surely he could mine out some particularly wonderful facts about Hornburg and its customs from him, with enough time and patience. 

That, or so he could be bent over a desk or a table or a bed and fucked six ways to Sunday, but that was sort of the general vibe he exuded around larger, stronger, attractive men, so Therion wasn’t too shocked to see it around someone as large, strong, and as handsome as Olberic.

_ It’s probably a bit of column A, a bit of column B in this situation... _

“Yeah, I think it’d be nice to have more people come with us, y’know?” Alfyn agreed, laid-back as ever. “I’m sure you’ve got some great stories to keep us on the edge of our seats! An’, y’know, strength in numbers n’ all.” 

“Aye, where there aren groups of humans, monsters generally do not tend to linger,” added H’aanit, stroking Linde’s fur with a small smile. “In addition, with thine skill in combat, we shalle enjoy success in our hunts far more readily.”

“Hey!” Tressa piped up then, stars in her eyes. “Can I come too?! If, ah... if it’s okay with you guys!” 

Ophilia giggled. “Why, of course, Tressa! I can’t think of a reason to deny you. I know that I’ll sleep much more soundly at night knowing that you’re safe with us.” 

“Eheheh, yeaaah...” she laughed, sheepishly scratching the back of her head. “I think I’ve learned my lesson in wandering around outside at night the  _ hard  _ way.”

_ You’re just lucky that you didn’t get eviscerated by whatever the fuck was attacking you _ ... thought Therion, shaking his head.  _Alfyn's good, but I don't think he's **that** good._

“I do regret that you had to learn in a manner as cruel as that,” hummed Cyrus, draining the rest of his tea. “However, perhaps the one silver lining is that now, you are with us, and we will do our best to keep you safe.” 

“Yeah! That’s right! Thanks to that, and to, uh, Therion, I guess, I get to hang out with you guys!” she said, only dropping her enthusiasm to mutter Therion’s name, and Alfyn burst out laughing in response. 

“Gods, c’mon, be nice to him,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Chestnut, remember? Like a chestnut.”

"If I catch him stealing anything, I'll crack him open like a chestnut!"

Therion groaned.  _ Gods,  _ **_please_ ** _ don’t let that stick. _

Ophilia smiled. “My, I do have to say, though... all this talk of chestnuts is making me rather hungry.” 

“Ugh, me too...” agreed Tressa, patting her stomach. “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”

That was true, now that Therion thought about it. Her and Olberic both likely haven’t eaten at all that day, and they surely hadn’t been eating anything shortly before Therion had discovered them. 

“Yeah, I’m staaarvin’!” exclaimed Alfyn, stretching his arms over his head. “I think it’s  _ long  _ past dinnertime by now.”

“It is not,” replied Cyrus, mildly. “It is  _ hardly  _ any later than seven o’clock, I’d wager. There are a good many people out there who enjoy eating later meals.” 

“I think Alfyn was joking, Professor,” giggled Tressa, and he mumbled out a small  _ ah _ . “But yeah, it’s time to  _ eat _ !” 

She jumped off of the bed, and Therion barely recognized her as the feeble, sobbing girl he had stumbled over last night. Where in the  _world_ did she get this energy from?

“Then alloweth us to maken our way to the tavern,” H’aanit decided, rising from her seat. Linde huffed out a noise and stretched lazily, yawning. It made Therion yawn, too, and while he was still quite sleepy, he was also starting to get famished once again. Food could come first, before his eventual fifteen-hour-long coma.

“You comin’, Therion?” Alfyn asked, smiling, and he hesitated for a moment. 

Just a moment, though. 

“... I guess,” he sighed, putting his dagger away, and Alfyn’s smile widened. 

“Alrighty, then. Hey, I was talkin' with one a the locals, and I heard they make a real mean chowder. Have you had that before? Anyways, it’s some real good shit, apparently, an’ I wanna see if it’s better than my Ma’s recipe...” 

And so Alfyn slung his arm around Therion’s shoulder and Therion wriggled free, like usual, and he rambled on and on about something or another, like usual, launching into winding stories and light-hearted quips, looking at him like he’s known him since they were children, and, oddly enough... things almost felt normal, somehow, about this, as if it were a usual thing.

Almost. 

_ Almost. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for your patience... I know I promised that this wouldn't take long, but things kept piling up and getting in the way...  
> I love all of you guys, and I hope that you all have a good day, wherever you are, whatever you do.


	14. Rat(kin) Scratch Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, tuna, thanks for providing some inspiration ; )  
> Somewhere in here you guys will see what actually first got me into this ship... an old comic by my good friend tuna, which worries her greatly, considering which one it is. This is also, in its roughest format, one of the very first chapters I wrote, so I had to do a lot of editing to bring it back up to a better quality ahahaha.  
> Thank you so much for your patience and support. I love you guys, and hope you enjoy.

_ Dear Zeph, _

_ I'm so glad to hear you guys are doing alright! Especially since I've heard from others here that there's been some nasty flus going around the Riverlands recently. Sure would suck if either of you guys got sick, so watch out! I don't wanna have to come all the way back home just to wipe your sniffly nose, you hear? _

_ Haha, kidding. You know I would, if you needed help (But seriously, don’t get sick).  _

_ Anyways, what's new with me...? Well, we actually ended up sailing from Noblecourt to Goldshore! I befriended a captain named Lyra and she let me aboard her vessel for some medicines as payment. I honestly thought it was a great idea, though H’aanit and Therion both got  _ _ incredibly _ _ seasick. So... unsurprisingly, they’ve voted against taking a ship back down to the Riverlands... Oh well. Walking isn’t so bad. Lots to see, tons of people to talk to... oh, and there’s a fuckton of ingredients to be found, too! My stockpiles of seaweed, balmgrass, and meadowblooms have never been higher, haha... feels good to not have to buy all of it. If it were faster I'd send you some... but if you're looking for extracts or dried variants of any of these, let me know. Like I said: I've got lots. _

_ What else? Oh! You’re going to love this: I may or may not have caught a con artist apothecary... _

_ Also kidding. I  _ _ DEFINITELY  _ _ did, with the help of Therion. Awesome, right? _

_ It sounds crazy, I know, but I swear on my Ma's grave that it happened. So, we get to Goldshore, and find out that a bunch of people were sick with fevers, but all of them had been cured by another traveling apothecary. Can you believe it? I thought it was kinda funny, that I just so happened to get there right behind them. _

_ As I checked the condition of a girl treated by this apothecary, I learned that she had apparently single-handedly wiped out the fevers that had been spreading, and I was really impressed! Like, there wasn't even a trace of warmth in the girl’s forehead, so whatever she used worked REAL well. So, after that, Therion and I tracked down the lady responsible (her name was Vanessa), and Therion IMMEDIATELY disliked her. I thought it was weird at the time. I mean, she seemed nice, so I didn’t really see what the problem was. I guess I should've trusted him on his instincts when she refused to show me any of her concoctions, but I didn't, and Therion and I got into a HUGE argument about it afterwards. At one point I accidentally said something really rude (almost said it, technically, but he figured it out, so I might as well have) and fuck, Zeph, the face he made damn near broke my heart. I might as well have slapped him. Like, I felt so fucking stupid about it. He left in a huff and avoided me for the rest of the day and partway into the next day, and while I definitely don't blame him, it still felt horrible, y'know? Gods, I'm an idiot. I’m so thankful that he ended up forgiving me, after I apologized.  _

_ But maybe it was almost a blessing, in a way, because while he was avoiding me, he overheard something very important. Thanks to that tidbit of information, he helped me figure out that Vanessa had actually been curing the fevers with Gaborran Evergreen. If you don’t remember what that is, check page 432 of your encyclopedia. It’s not really meant to be used, even though it’s so incredibly effective on fevers, because it irritates the pharyngeal and esophageal passages so badly that it creates a condition similar to whooping cough. So, she would incite this whooping cough in her patients, and then turned around to try and sell them the cure (glowworm moss) for an absolutely ludicrous price. Turns out that this is why she didn’t want me to see her concoctions...  _

_ So, as you’ve probably figured out, (because you’ve always been the more sensible one of us haha...) yeah, Therion was right all along. I should' _ _ ve listened to him right from the start. I apologized, and I’m so,  _ _ so _ _ grateful that he accepted it... Gods, I would’ve been heartbroken if he’d hated me because of it. But, y'know, I guess this will teach me to keep my temper in check, from now on. _

_ Oh yeah, anyways, we teamed up after that and went to a nearby cave to go get some of this moss, and we ran into Vanessa while we were there. She started to get aggressive, so we took her and her goons out. It was amazing, Zeph! Therion’s so good at fighting... He kinda saved my life in there. The goons were..... uh, “taken care of” courtesy of him, but I knocked out Vanessa with that sprig of slumberthorn that your dad gave me. She’s in gaol now. I hope she’s learned her lesson... I mean, I just honestly can’t believe that anyone would do this, Zeph. Like, she’s an apothecary. She does actually know what she’s doing, judging by her concoctions, and it just doesn't make sense to me, you know? Like, how is racketeering innocent people for money more satisfying than helping them? How does she sleep at night knowing that she could have stopped people from  _ _ dying? _

_ Just... well, I mean she’s a fucking sociopath, for Dohter’s sake. She said herself that she doesn’t give a shit if children die. Half the people in that town couldn’t afford her cure. A hundred thousand leaves per phial?! Who DOES that?!  _

_... Sorry, haha. I’m still pissed, but it doesn’t matter much anymore. Her slimy, conniving ass is parked in a gaol cell and Therion and I got to save the town. Nobody died under our watch, and that’s the way it should be. Like your dad always said... all’s well that ends well, right? _

_  Anyways, we're preparing to leave Goldshore, so that's cool. Truth be told, it's really nice here. I can see why a lotta people like living here. This side of the ocean is huge... You can't even see the shore on the other side. And you can tell right away why the town is called ‘Goldshore’ in the first place— the sand is so bright and sparkly that it looks like gold dust. I mean, I've never  _ _ actually _ _ seen gold in dust form so I could be wrong, but imagine that. Otherwise, there's the cathedral, and it's huge! Maybe not as big as the one in Flamesgrace, but it's still pretty impressive! Ophilia did her Kindling ceremony thing this morning, and we all came to watch (including Therion, so that's good!!). After that, Ophilia was also chatting with a guy named Mattias at the church. He seemed nice, though Therion didn't take to him at all. Considering what happened last time... I’m a bit more inclined to listen this time around. Maybe. He’s kinda like this to every new person, so I’ll just have to wait and see, I guess. _

_ Another thing about Therion... I guess something was bothering him, because the night before (after we taught Vanessa a lesson), he snuck out of the inn room we were sharing and ran off in the middle of the night. I had no idea, obviously, since I was sleeping, but he ended up coming back before I woke up... because he found an injured girl and a swordsman, and he led them to me all the way from gods-knows-where so I could help them. I was conked right out, since it was still like six in the morning, but he woke me up and sent me out to take a look at them before he collapsed into bed and fell asleep.  _

_ I mean, even right then I had an idea of what he did. The guy was fully dressed at six AM and dead tired. But I also wanted to pretend that he  _ _ didn't _ _ just come back in that state, because that means that he very nearly  _ _ successfully _ _ ran away, and that doesn't feel good at all, you know? Like, honestly, it felt terrible. _

_... Man, Zeph, I was honestly shocked that it hurt as much as it did. Like I knew that it would feel shitty if it did happen, but I didn't really anticipate just HOW shitty. Like, he didn't make any promises, technically, and I know he didn't. I never forced him to. Just... _

_ I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm happy that he did end up coming back. Maybe I'm just sad that the chances of him actually coming back were really low... like, if he hadn't found those two, then would I have ever seen him again?  _

_ Knowing him, probably not, and it stings, Zeph.  _

_ It's hard to tell for sure, and you know me— optimistic idiot, right? But I sorta think that he's not going anywhere anytime soon, and I'm happy with that. I mean, he apologized! And that's a big step for him. Like, again, maybe I'm just being stupidly hopeful, but... I don’t know. It's hard to explain. It still hurts a bit, don’t get me wrong, but... his apology felt sincere, I guess, like as sincere as he CAN be, and I'm happy with that. Finally feels like we're starting to get somewhere, you know? _

_ I really do like him, Zeph. There's something real special about him, and I want to get to know him better... if he'll let me. He’s still so closed-off, but... sometimes I think I can see little glimpses into him, you know? It’s like finding the ruins of a fortress, or something, and seeing a flower growing in the middle. The strangest part is that he doesn’t even know it’s there. He thinks he’s empty, but he isn’t.  _

_ I know there’s kindness within him. I’ve seen a bit of it, and I get the feeling that he’s capable of so much more, if we let him. _

_ I’m excited to see it. I really am.  _

_ Oh shit, right, I forgot to tell you— there’s two more people in the group! The girl and the swordsman that Therion found decided to come with us! Isn’t that cool?? There’s so many of us now! It’s great! The girl’s name is Tressa, and she’s a merchant! I’ve never seen a merchant so young before... Didn’t ask how old she is, but I’d guess maybe sixteen? Maybe? She’s super short... Shoulder-length brown hair, big green eyes. Really energetic!! I like her. She’s kinda like the little sister I never had (aside from Nina, anyways). Otherwise, there’s the soldier, Sir Olberic. He's pretty quiet, but he still seems really nice. _

_ Gods, okay, I have to tell you something about him. Firstly, he’s taller than me!! I don’t see that every day! It feels so weird to look UP at someone to talk to him instead of down. Is this what Therion feels like? It’s strange. He’s also super strong (soldier, duh), and Cyrus found out something really interesting about him— he’s not just ANY soldier, but he’s actually a really famous knight from Hornburg, the fallen kingdom! I know it was a long time ago now, but I’m sure I recall my Ma telling us about it when it happened.  _

_ Poor Cyrus dropped his tea when he found that out. At least Sir Olberic didn’t seem to mind much. That's good, since I honestly thought that Cyrus might start crying. He was pretty embarrassed from that whole thing. _

_ We’re going to be heading back down towards the mountains, and through the desert. Can’t say I’m real excited about THAT, but oh well... it’s about the experience, right? Or so they say. We’ll see. _

_ Gods, sorry, I just looked back and saw just how stupidly long this letter got. Guess a lot of things happened, huh? Oh well. Now you know EXACTLY what we’ve been up to this past little while! _

_ Take care, okay? Love you guys. Tell Nina that I miss her and that I’m still the cooler big brother.  _

_ Send your next letter to Sunshade, I guess! We'll be passing through there soon, or die trying!  _

_ Hopefully not dying, though. I'm too young to die. _

_ Love,  _

_ Alf _

 

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

“Done and done!” Alfyn exclaimed, stepping out of the post office. His friends glanced up from where they had been waiting, all of them scattered around the front of the shop. “Now that’ll get sent off, Zeph’ll get it shoved through the mail slot, and he’ll have to read through a fuckin’ novelette of my nonsense. Poor bastard.”

Ophilia and H’aanit both nodded pleasantly. Tressa shot him a thumbs up.

“Nice job!” she enthused. Alfyn gave her a thumbs up back, grinning. He’d only met her yesterday, but he liked her already. 

“Poor bastard indeed,” muttered Therion, who received a laugh from Alfyn.

“I know, right? Can’t understand why he still puts up with me.” 

“How long  _ was  _ that letter, anyways?” wondered Tressa, tilting her head. “‘Cause you were still working on it when we came to get you, and you're probably not a slow writer.” 

“Oh, something like six pages long,” he supposed, shrugging. “Enough that the postal lady asked if I was writin’ a book, heheh.” 

“It is always a pleasure to read a letter sent by a friend,” said Olberic, and there was a very,  _ very _ faint undercurrent of sadness in his tone. Alfyn supposed that, considering the professor’s shock at him being alive in the first place, Olberic’s friends either also didn’t know that he was still alive... or they had all died in the fall of his kingdom, and therefore couldn’t write anything to him even if they had wanted to. 

It was a very depressing thought. Alfyn didn’t even want to  _ begin _ imagining what it would be like to see Clearbrook destroyed, to know that he was the only surviving person from his village.

Really, mostly, he just didn’t want to imagine Zeph being dead.

“Well I sure think so. Bastard had better appreciate it— I bought some bitters n’ sent those off to him, too.”

Therion made a face. Apparently he didn't care for bitters.

“Ah, the orange and clove bitters?” wondered Cyrus, and Alfyn nodded. 

“Yeah! That's it. Zeph's always been a fan of ‘em. Haven’t tried this one yet, though. Just our local distillations from waterblooms.” 

“Oh? Yes, the bitters of Goldshore are rather well-known, even in Atlasdam,” replied Cyrus, taking a small bottle from his bag. The bright red liquid caught the sunlight and reflected off of his hands. “I actually just bought some for myself yesterday.”

_ Of course you did... _ Alfyn laughed, shaking his head. By what he’s gleaned from conversing with him (and drinking with him at the tavern), the good professor was more fond of alcohol that one might initially assume. Perhaps that was how scholars passed the time studying...? Drinking and discussing whatever it was that they talked about in their marble halls?

It sounded like a pretty decent lifestyle, honestly. Were he not already an apothecary, he might not have minded pursuing that same sort of career. 

“I must say, though, those bitters are hardly cheap,” continued Cyrus. “Surely it would be a much-appreciated surprise to him.”

“Yeaaah, but it’s worth it. He’s my best friend, y’know? I’ve gotta remind him of  _ why  _ every so often, heheheh.”

“... Wow, you’ve sure come a long way,” drawled Therion, sarcastic as ever. “Buying a present for someone all by yourself? I didn’t even have to buy a stamp for you this time.”

Alfyn laughed, stepping forwards to give a light slap to his arm. He definitely noticed the tiny flinch from Therion as his hand connected.  _ Still doesn’t like being touched. _

“Yeah, it's funny what happens when thieves suddenly stuff your purses full a leaves,” he rebuked, winking, and Therion’s face turned a delightful shade of pink. He hadn’t actually needed to get a stamp for him last time, as he had filled his purse before then, but if he was going to try and tease him...

_ Well, two can play at this game. _

“Huh? Are you saying that Therion would do  _ that _ for you?” asked Tressa, planting a hand on her hip, and he saw Therion duck further into his scarf. Gods, but he was cute when he did that.

“... No. Why would I do that?” he muttered, embarrassed, but Alfyn just giggled, stepped out onto the path. The rest of them filed behind him, falling into step. 

“C’mon, Therion, if you just admit to all’ve us that you’re actually a big sweetie, we’ll leave you alone,” retorted Alfyn, shooting a glance behind him. He was rewarded by a withering glare and a deepening blush, which was a combination that brought a bigger smile to his face. Fine, he'd leave him alone— that reaction was enough to satisfy him for a while yet.

It wasn't really a secret that Alfyn had a bit of a crush on him. He was sure that H'aanit, Ophilia, and Cyrus at the very least were all more or less aware of it by that point, even though he'd never said it explicitly to anyone (aside from Zeph, sort of, as even then, it had been paraphrased). Therion was completely unlike anyone he’s ever seen before, after all. 

Really, it wasn’t just that— Alfyn had never seen anyone as  _ beautiful  _ as Therion was. 

It didn’t take long for him to notice his beauty. Right from the get-go, right from the beginning, the first second that he opened that gemstone-green eye and looked at him with a scowl sour enough to curdle milk, he was struck breathless.

Amazingly, even  _ after  _ he opened his mouth and actually spoke to him with that knife-like tongue, Alfyn didn’t feel any differently about him. There had been something about him, he thought, that made it easier to ignore the barbs.

He didn't know what it was, really. He had seen lots of people with hair something like his (short, messy, white as snow and soft as down), with skin like his (golden like sunlight, brown like beach sand and sunsoaked earth, scarred like stone), with eyes like his (sharp, intelligent, cold and clear and bright as shards of glass, aqua-green like a river), with a build like his (short, delicate, wiry,  _ perfect _ ). 

Yet, despite that, he had never seen someone with all of these things combined, all of these things and then some added in, and all of it had melded into something that created an effect that he hadn’t anticipated, something he had never predicted from when he had found him in the grass, dying from poison, barely breathing. 

Perhaps he should have known, however. Even as he had tipped the panacea down his throat, he had almost stupidly, foolishly thought that he looked like the angels that his Ma used to talk about in fairytales and storybooks.

Right then, he wasn’t acting much like a holy being, however— Tressa had started bothering him about when he had gone through the trouble of repaying Alfyn for his trouble (and why), and he grumbled his way through that conversation, entirely unhelpful. Even then, he didn’t seem terribly interested in admitting that he  _ had _ actually helped Alfyn in the first place, let alone  _ why _ .

Alfyn...  _ supposed _ that he couldn’t really blame him. Praise was embarrassing sometimes. But, at the same time, he couldn’t help but to find his complete and persistent denial of his kindness odd. Judging by how he had reacted the other day to Alfyn’s insult, at how Alfyn had  _ definitely _ seen the glimmer of tears just before he turned away and left, he didn’t really  _ love _ that he was a thief. He was skilled, certainly, and he knew just how skilled he was. 

The shock of him looking him in the eye and dropping his lucky coin onto the bar table had never really left his mind, nor the unease that something that had consistently been  _ there _ with him since her passing could disappear so easily (not that Therion  _ would _ steal it now, as he trusted him on that). He really hadn’t noticed him rummaging through his bag at any point, and neither had Cyrus— he had talked about it with him afterwards. Neither of them had even  _ suspected _ that anything was amiss. 

The low drawl of his voice, bored and confident and a touch cocky, on the verge of arrogant, lingered with him for days after that.

_ I’m not just  _good._ I can steal just about anything, from anyone. I’m a  ** _master_**. _

And, so did the hurt in his eyes when Alfyn had nearly put him down for it.

_ At least you’re not a fucking  ** _thief_** , huh? _

“Surely Zeph will appreciate receiving another update of your whereabouts,” mused Cyrus, dragging Alfyn out of his thoughts. “Though I don't know him personally, I can tell that you two are very good friends. Certainly he misses you.”

Hearing that Zeph probably missed him made him homesick, for a moment, but Alfyn tried to shake it away. He did miss Zeph. This was by far the longest stretch of time he’d gone without seeing him, and it hurt. 

But, well, this was what he had set out to do, after all. He promised his Ma that he would leave home and see the continent, at some point. His father had never really gotten the chance to, and he had often regretted it, before his passing.   

“Ah, yeah, we’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember,” replied Alfyn. “Our parents were pretty close, too. So I guess it’s only natural that Zeph n’ I ended up gettin’ along as well as we do.”

“Oh, how sweet!” enthused Ophilia, softly clapping her hands together. “Your parents were also childhood friends?”

“Yeah, my dad n’ Zeph's dad were friends since they were real little. My Ma actually came from Saintsbridge, so she didn’t know them at that point.” 

“Ah, Saintsbridge!” Ophilia replied, eyes sparkling. “That’s the next and final destination of the Kindling. Of course, I haven’t been there myself, but I’ve heard that it’s absolutely lovely there.”

Therion made a very small noise. It sounded like a scoff, but not quite as venomous. Nobody else seemed to have heard it. 

“It’s real nice, yeah,” Alfyn replied, recalling the occasional excursion with his mother (and, on some occasions, Zeph would get to go, as well). “Real big! The cathedral’s beautiful, though I’ve never gone inside. I’d guess it’s about as nice as the one here, maybe.” 

“I should imagine so, seeing as to how both Goldshore and Saintsbridge are seen as the pillars of the church of Aelfric, as well as Flamesgrace, of course,” mused Cyrus, smiling as if this were a rather interesting lesson. “The first cathedral, in Flamesgrace, was built over the very site said to be where the descendant of Aelfric was born.”

“So you’re saying that Aelfric’s fucked,” came Therion’s dry response, and it was so unexpected that Alfyn burst out laughing, long and loud and vibrant. Several other travelers joined in, from Tressa’s reluctant snickering (because, while she still refused to be nice to him, she had to admit that was funny) to Cyrus’s embarrassed chuckle, his lesson knocked off track. 

“I mean, I don’t see why not!” Alfyn replied, still giggling. “Like, he’s a  _ god _ . He’s probably fucked.” 

“Fucked or gotten fucked?” 

“Ooh, true. I’m thinkin’ he’s a bottom. He’s probably a bottom.”

“I... a-ah...” stammered Ophilia, clearly uncertain how to handle the blasphemy being spouted from her friends’ mouths. Alfyn supposed he couldn’t really blame her. Her fifteen-odd years of clerical training had probably never included a unit on what to do, exactly, when one’s friends start loudly discussing your patron god’s sex life.

“Who would he even sleep with?” Tressa asked, a bit saucily. “Alephan? Brand?” 

“Cyrus would sleep with Brand,” Therion muttered, not quite quietly enough for Cyrus to avoid overhearing, and Alfyn launched into another peal of laughter, tears leaking from his eyes. Gods, but he was  _ terrible _ to the professor...

“W-well, frankly... I, ah, I should think that, were a god propositioning me in such a manner... I would  _ hardly _ be in a position to turn him down, wouldn’t you say?” a very pink Cyrus replied, tittering. He didn't deny it, Alfyn noted. 

“I mean, yeah, that’s true,” he agreed, still giggling. “Guess there’s not a whole lot one can really say when you’re, like, readin’ a book and a knock comes at the door an’ a god walks in like ‘Hey, you down to get boned?’ because, honestly, I’d probably just shrug an’ say, ‘Fuck, that sure is a god askin’ me if I wanna get boned, so why not?’.”

“You’d say exactly that?” asked Tressa, laughing, and Alfyn shrugged, winking. 

“I dunno. Can’t say it’s ever happened before, so maybe. If a cute god comes knockin’ on my door, I’ll let ya know.” 

Once they were done with _that_  discussion (and Ophilia stopped looking as if she couldn’t decide whether to be upset or amused), the conversation naturally eased into something a little less rowdy, smoothing along into discussing their time in the town ( _ “Simply lovely,” _ according to Cyrus,  _ “A bit shorter than I’d like, but still good!” _ from Tressa), their plans ( _ “From here, I shalle needen to ventureth to Stonegard, for there shalle I gleaneth more information regarding my Master,” _ was H’aanit’s plot, while  _ “My sights are set on Victor’s Hollow, where I may learn more about Erhardt’s whereabouts,” _ was on Olberic’s agenda), their opinions of the food ( _ “Different than what I’m used to! There isn’t a lot of fish to be had in the Frostlands, save for some river fishing,” _ decided Ophilia, and  _ “Fishy,” _ was all Therion had to offer, after a nudge from Alfyn). All in all, aside from certain...  _ events _ , everyone had more or less a good time in Goldshore.

And while Alfyn  _ wanted _ to say that he had a great time, despite everything... he couldn’t, really. 

It wasn’t  _ horrible _ . The food was delicious and the people were welcoming. The inn was clean and bright, the drinks good, the air invigorating, and he had an enjoyable time overall. He liked the town. Were he ever in the area again, he’d gladly spend some more time on the golden beaches, soaking in the sunlight, chatting with the locals. Goldshore was a nice place. That, he wouldn’t deny.

But, he still felt a lingering pain inside of him, even with all the good that had happened. 

Silly as it was, in all of his twenty-one years of life, he had never once considered that there were apothecaries out there who weren’t interested in actually  _ helping _ people. It had never occurred to him to use his skills to extort the sick, the wounded, the dying for  _ money _ . 

That wasn’t what he  _ did _ . He was a healer, and he intended to help people, regardless of whether or not they could pay. 

That was the right thing to do, after all, and that's what he had set off to do— to help others in a bind, and let them carry on with their lives, with their purses no lighter and their hearts no heavier. He helped people regardless of whether or not he gained anything from it.

He could imagine Zeph’s shock written back to him in the letter he’d eventually cut open in Sunshade. Mild as he was, he still took his profession just as seriously as Alfyn did, and, because of that, he’d be just as angry as Alfyn was, writing out several things that Nina wouldn’t be allowed to read, then shaking himself off and moving the conversation along to something a little less unpleasant.

Until then, though, they would both be livid.

But, before he could think too deeply about that, they passed by Marlene’s house, and the door swung open, Ellen pushing her way outside with Flynn in tow. Marlene herself followed a few paces behind, hurriedly fixing her hair as if she hadn’t really expected to leave the house right then, and the girls ran up to Alfyn, shoes clicking on the stone. 

“Mister Alfyn!” they exclaimed, almost perfectly in sync, and he chuckled, stooped down to say hello. 

They ran up to him but, just before reaching out for a hug, they noticed Therion. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if he was hoping that they wouldn’t approach him further. But, children being children, they did, much to his apparent dismay. Alfyn chuckled. Gods, but these girls were cute.

“Mister Therion!” Ellen said, and Alfyn noted that while she had never actually been standoffish, she still sounded much friendlier towards him now. “Mister Therion, do you like my new shoes?”

Sure enough, the girl’s worn old shoes had been replaced by a new pair of boots, sturdy and strong. Flynn wore a matching pair, just as shiny. Alfyn knew from a glance that, while they weren’t fancy, they were still rather expensive for someone of Marlene’s social standing.

“Y-yeah, they're... they look nice,” Therion replied, a bit awkwardly. Alfyn could tell pretty easily that he clearly hadn’t much experience with children, judging by how uncertain his expression was. 

“Yeah! They’re sooo much comfier than our old shoes!” Flynn agreed, rocking back and forth on her heels. “So we wanted to thank you!” 

_ Thank you....?  _ Alfyn’s eyes narrowed from confusion as he watched a pink stain blossom over Therion’s face. He looked as if he hadn’t really anticipated them thanking him about it.

But, from what Alfyn could determine by what the girls had said, at some point during the past day, Therion had given them enough money to buy new boots with. He didn't seem confused, after all, as if this were a misunderstanding.

Why he did it, he didn’t know. Was it unprompted? Did he sneak it into their pockets while they passed by, similar to what he had done for him, once upon a time? Or was it in repayment for something?

Marlene came over then, having finished fixing her hair, and she stood behind her daughters, thanking him so sincerely she almost sounded like she might cry. Therion wilted beneath the positive attention, as well as all of the curious gazes from their fellow travelers, sinking his head down into his scarf but willing himself to stand still, mumbling out something that might have been a " _No problem,_ ". 

And Alfyn just listened, absorbing this information like a sponge, heart swelling to the point it felt like it might burst.

_ You’re so kind, Therion, _ he thought, as Therion nearly squirmed beneath all of their praise, of their gratitude.  _ You’re so kind, deep down inside.  _

_ Why don’t you want anyone to know? _

The girls then turned towards Alfyn, and he was immediately encircled by four little arms, both of them pulling him in for a hug. 

“Are you leaving, Mister Alfyn?” asked Ellen, a bit sadly, and Alfyn gave a small sigh, patting their backs. 

“Yeah, it’s time for us to head out now,” he replied, hearing their disappointed noises. “Sorry... I'd love to stay for a while, but we can't... My friends have things to do, an’ so I can't stick around.”

“But you're so much fun, Mister Alfyn...” lamented Flynn. “You're different from the other grown-ups. They aren't fun like you.”

_ You're really just an overgrown kid, aren't 'cha?  _ Zeph teased, in his memory, and Alfyn laughed quietly, pulling back a bit. Their eyes were shiny, but they weren't crying quite yet. 

“I'll come back to visit, alright?” he reassured them, smiling. “I like it here. I'll definitely be back.”

“That'll be a long time, though,” Ellen said, scuffing her shoes morosely. “Can you maybe write letters?” 

Just then, Marlene approached them, lightly shaking her head. 

“Oh, come now, girls,” Marlene sighed, a touch embarrassed. “Please don't pester Mister Alfyn about these things. He's quite busy, and paper's—”

“Pricey? Nah, don't worry about it. Apothecaries use it all the time. I've got a whole ton of it at home.”

With that, he opened his bag and dug out a notebook and a fountain pen, which was probably one of the most expensive things he owned, and uncapped it, flipping to a blank page. On it, he wrote out his name and town in clean block letters, sharp enough that the girls would have no trouble reading it, and tore the paper free. 

He held it out, and Flynn took it, all three of them reading it over. It only then occurred to him that there was a chance that the girls couldn't read yet, due to their social standing, but he supposed that if that were the case, Marlene could write for them.        

In his notebook, he wrote out Marlene's name and “Goldshore” beneath it, making a mental note to write out a letter when he got the chance. 

“Thank you very much for all that you've done, again,” Marlene said, wringing her hands in her apron. “I truly wish that I could afford to repay you for going above and beyond for my girls... let alone the rest of the afflicted.”

Alfyn waved a casual, dismissive hand. “Psh, it was nothin'. It's what I do.”

“Still...” she persisted, and, in her smile, in her build and her hair and her eyes, he was strongly reminded of his own mother. “We're still indebted to you. So... may the gods light your path.”

“An’ may the gods light yours, too,” he replied, remembering his manners. “So I’ll write to you guys, okay? I’ll write, an’ if you ever get the chance, you two can write back. I’ll even send ya some blank paper to use, if ya want. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Ellen replied, but Flynn just nodded. She seemed to be thinking deeply about something.

“So I’ll see ya guys later, okay?” he said, standing up, and the girls made a small, sad noise. He felt guilty, but he didn’t have a choice— the others awaited, and it wasn’t feasible for him to stay here longer. 

Besides, he knew what he wanted, no,  _ had _ to do— he was going to be like the apothecary that saved his life, and he was going to travel on. 

“Goodbye, Mister Alfyn,” Marlene prompted, and the girls echoed her, with Ellen saying it strongly, and Flynn’s voice nearly inaudible, eyes glued to the paper, roving over the letters.

He stood, and gave a final wave, walking off with the rest of the group. The girls and their mother waved them goodbye, Flynn clutching the paper as if it might disappear if she held less tightly. Marlene looked sad to see him go, but the girls were definitely teary, waving vigorously so that they might not cry.

And, just before they got too far away, Flynn called after him.

“Mister Alfyyyn!” she shouted, and he glanced back. Her free hand was balled into a fist, determined, emotional. “Mister Alfyn! I... I wanna be like  _ you  _ when I grow up!” 

Alfyn had told himself not to get too distracted talking to everyone he met, because the others were in a bit of a hurry, but his gait still faltered, and he turned to look back at her, at how she was fighting off tears. 

_ You wanna be just like me...? _

“You saved my life, Mister Alfyn!” she continued, her small voice loud and strong, so far away from the weak, wheezing noises he had first heard from her at her bedside, holding a bucket beneath her head. “Mama said I could have died! And you saved me! So... so I wanna be a pock-a-therry, too, just like you!” 

And he remembered the exact same thing happening from the opposite viewpoint, of a much younger version of himself shouting after the traveling apothecary and telling him that he wanted to grow up to be just like him, that he also wanted to save people. 

The apothecary had told him that he could, if he wanted, that he believed in him. 

_ And I did. I did it, in the end, and I got to save people, just like him. _

“You can, Flynn!” he shouted back. “I know you can! If I did it, then you can, too!”

“I wanna save people too! I—” she hiccupped, words faltering, but though her voice was choked, her tone was still strong. “I-I wanna... I wanna help people like  _ you _ !” 

Oh, he didn't really  _ want _ to start crying again thanks to them, but he found himself choking up regardless, eyes stinging and nose burning, and he forced himself to smile. He didn't really remember exactly what he said (something about how he'd write to her about it, how he'd try to help her), but he remembered how Flynn had proclaimed once more that she would do it, that she would learn, that she would  _ help people just like him one day _ , and he broke down crying outside of the town, happy, thankful, overwhelmed, emotional. Several hands pat him on the shoulders, his back, voices soothing him.

The only person who said nothing, didn’t try to touch him was Therion, and Alfyn didn’t take it personally— the fact that he had a glint of a puzzled concern in his eyes was enough to help a bit.

“You really did do a lot for them, Alfyn,” Ophilia said, gently. “I'm certain that you will always be fondly remembered by the townsfolk for your generosity.”

“Y-yeah, but it wasn't  _ just _ me,” he said, wiping away tears. “Therion helped, too. Actually, without him, I might not’ve left that cave alive.”

Therion huffed. “Sh-shut up about that. It would’ve been stupid for you to go alone. That’s it.” 

“Coulda just told me to hire a sellsword to go with me,” Alfyn replied, immediately, and Therion shut up.

_ There he goes again, trying to convince me that he’s not a good person, _ thought Alfyn, watching him bury his nose deep into his scarf and scowl at the pebbles, kicking them beneath his boots. He didn’t seem to  _ love _ that Alfyn was determined to be kind to him, despite his profession and his general attitude, and Alfyn didn’t really understand it. Once you overlooked his sarcasm and his salt, he really  _ was _ nice. Thief or not, he was caring, deep down inside. 

Why didn’t he want people to think that he was?

Thinking about it made him absent-minded. The others talked around him, but he didn’t really focus enough on their conversations to decipher anything. Therion occupied his mind, like he often did nowadays, and it almost made Alfyn want to laugh. He wasn’t just interested, Zeph had pointed out. He was head-over-heels smitten with him, and reading  _ that _ out in Zeph’s writing had made him sigh, shove hands through his hair, chuckle shamefully and resignedly.  _ Yeah _ . He really was, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

Ideally, of course, he loved the thought of his feelings being reciprocated, but he was somewhat aware, at the same time, that it was pretty unlikely. 

Unlikely, but lovely all the same. 

_ I can’t get my hopes up too much, but... if he does eventually feel the same way... _

The thought of Therion liking him back was enough to nearly make him dizzy, and he stumbled over a rock. Therion glanced over, then rolled his eyes upon seeing that Alfyn was fine. 

Yeah. It really would be a miracle if he ever felt that way about him.

The walk outside the gates was pleasant, with a brilliant blue sky stretching wide above them and a coastal wind filling their lungs. Alfyn should have felt lively, cramming his hands in his pockets and watching the seagulls gliding overhead, but he was contemplative instead, mind wandering. Nobody commented on his silence, too distracted by everyone else’s conversations to say anything. 

Off to the side, sea lions barked in the harbour, prompting Tressa to break off from the group to linger closer to the seabank, watching for them as she walked. H’aanit, intrigued by an animal she hadn’t seen, went with her. Tressa enthusiastically described them to her, answering all of her questions as well as she could, and Alfyn smiled. This girl had blended in seamlessly to their group, talking with all of them (save for Therion) as if she’d known them for years. 

Her friendship with Therion might take some time yet, but he somehow knew that they would probably begrudgingly get along before they knew it. They just seemed to share a big brother and little sister dynamic. 

Alfyn’s mother had told him at some point that she had originally also wanted a daughter, but after his father passed away, she would have to be happy with just him.

_ Are ya, Ma?  _ Alfyn had asked, making a silly face, and she had rolled her eyes, thumped him very gently on the head with a wooden spoon.

_ Mostly. Maybe if you’d stop trackin’ dirt in the house, I’d be a lil’ bit happier. _

He smiled at the memory, but it felt sad all the same. Oh, he really missed his Ma. It had been two years since she had died, but it still hurt to think about sometimes, still ached whenever he sifted too deeply into his memories. His father’s death had hurt, certainly, but he was so young that he didn’t really understand it. He was there in the morning, and he wasn’t in the evening. That was it. He didn’t come back, and no matter how many times it was explained to him by his mother (desperately trying not to cry, shouldering both her mourning and the frustration of being unable to explain  _ why _ to Alfyn), he couldn’t really realize the truth of it until he was older. 

He missed his father, yes, but it was more in the way that he felt a loss of what he could have had— he could have grown up like Zeph, with his father teaching him how to fish and how to chop wood, how to do all the things that his mother had to learn herself in his stead. Thankfully, since he was so close to Zeph (and their parents’ friendship had certainly helped with this), Zeph’s parents essentially saw him as another son, and Alfyn’s mother felt the same about Zeph. They grew up like that, together almost just as frequently as they were apart, with Nina eventually added to the mix.

When Alfyn lost his father at three and Zeph lost his mother at nine, the remaining parents were there to support each other’s kids. And, when Alfyn’s mother and Zeph’s father both passed away within a month of each other and they were left alone in the world, they had each other, and grew closer. 

Alfyn almost laughed at the thought. Perhaps a bit closer than most people might have guessed.

But, at the end of the day, while he loved Zeph deeply, and Zeph definitely felt the same, neither of them felt anything particularly romantic towards each other. They could maybe love each other like that, in theory, had they both tried to. It definitely wouldn’t be hard.

Right then, though, Therion was his focus, and Alfyn intended to ride that out for as long as he could... which was either until Therion, by some divine miracle, felt the same, or until his crush dissipated and scattered, worn away by time and by some other person coming along and replacing him in his mind, and while that was infinitely more likely, it still felt sad to think about, somehow.

It shouldn't have mattered, really, but it did, for some reason.

He really liked him.

They walked on for another couple of hours before Tressa came to a stop, head tilted as she scrutinized something off to their right.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, pointing up at a rock formation. “I saw those rocks the other night!” 

In response, the others stopped walking, all looking at the rocks. They sure looked to be rocks.

“... Wow,” replied Therion, flatly, but nobody responded to him. 

“How... do you know that they were these rocks in particular?” wondered Cyrus, and Alfyn supposed that that was a good question— who's to say that this stack of rock was  _ really _ the one that she saw? They had passed by plenty of ones similar to this.

“‘Cause it's shaped kinda like a horse's head,” she explained, illustrating in the air with her finger. “Look at it from over here.”

Some of them did, Alfyn included. It was the blockiest horse he'd ever seen, but yeah, he saw what she meant.

“When did you see those rocks? As in, at what point during your travels?” wondered Ophilia, and Tressa put her hands on her hips. 

“Oh, not too long before Therion found us. I was gonna set up camp around here for the night. I heard that there had been a lot more Ratkin than usual over in the Highlands, so I didn't wanna camp out there alone for the night.”

“A wise decision,” nodded Cyrus, approvingly. 

“... You still got attacked, though,” muttered Therion, and she turned to glower at him.

“Shut up! At least I  _ tried _ to be smart about this.” 

“You did your best, and that's the important thing,” came Ophilia's mild reply, ever the mediator.

“Wouldst thou sayen that hereabouts may be where thou and Ser Olberic weren stumbled ‘pon by Therion, Tressa?” H’aanit wondered, and Tressa gave a small shake of the head.

“Hmm... no, we weren’t quite  _ this _ far out when he found us. The monster came up to me while I was here... so I panicked and ran away.”

Therion looked like he wanted to say something rude, but chose not to. H'aanit's lips pressed into a line. Even Alfyn knew that that was generally the worst possible thing to do when confronted with a monster. But, well, he supposed that he couldn't blame her. She  _ was _ only like, fifteen. 

“I gather that, whilst you were fleeing, Sir Olberic found you,” Cyrus prompted. Tressa nodded her assent, and Olberic did, too.

“Indeed. I had been just about to set up camp for the night off by that stand of trees over yonder,” Olberic clarified, gesturing towards a faint smudge of green in the distance. “I overheard her screams and followed the sound to the source.” 

“An’ after that, I’m guessin’ that Sir Olberic fought off the monster?” questioned Alfyn, and Olberic nodded. 

“Just so. I slew the fiend, and stayed by her side until Therion approached us.”

The others nodded. Therion said nothing. 

Alfyn’s train of thought stopped in an instant.

_... Hang on. _

“... Therion? You approached them yourself?” Alfyn asked, turning to face him fully. Therion’s expression was on the verge of sour, pinched with discomfort, and Alfyn realized that he must have guessed correctly. 

He blinked up at him, as if silently asking  _ What do you care? _ , but Alfyn simply waited, watching him. His expression was guarded, for the most part, but he could see the shifts in his eyes, hints of embarrassment, vague contentedness, hesitation, and, perhaps most disconcertingly, something almost resembling fear, buried deeper than the rest of them but no less powerful.

What was he afraid of? Him? Or something else, something older and deeper?

What could possibly scare Therion, who, in Alfyn’s eyes, was the bravest and most resilient person he’s ever met?

“... What’s it matter?” he eventually shrugged, turning away and walking on. 

The rest of the group glanced at each other, puzzled, but followed him. 

Alfyn didn’t want to pester him further, so he slowed his steps slightly, falling in line with Olberic. He nodded his head, giving a vague smile.

“... You guys didn’t, like, _call_ Therion over, did ya?” he asked keeping his voice low enough that Therion wouldn’t overhear. “Like, when he was out on his... y’know,  _ expedition _ .” 

Expedition. He couldn’t quite make himself say  _ escape attempt _ , so this was the next best thing. 

“Nay, we didn’t,” Olberic replied, shaking his head. “Truth be told, we hadn’t a clue that he was even there until he drew not eight feet before us. We were quite startled. I hate to admit it, but I bore suspicion towards him for it initially. After all, to be approached by a lone traveler with little else but the light of the moon to guide him... was highly unusual.”

Alfyn, in the kindest way possible, supposed that he had to agree with him there. Had he been in the same position, either injured or in the middle of helping someone who was injured, out in the wilderness in the middle of the night, and to have a traveler in a tattered scarf and shawl come out of nowhere... would be a bit unsettling, at least. 

Of course, both Olberic and Alfyn were far taller and stronger than Therion, but that didn’t mean much— plenty of smaller people had learned skills that made them dangerous in their own rights. 

Cyrus, capable of rending the sky apart by lightning without even taking a step, was a fine example.

They hadn’t gotten the chance yet to see Ophilia, Tressa, or Olberic’s abilities in combat, but Alfyn had faith in the latter’s skill, at the very least. For him to be famous enough for Cyrus to nearly have a stroke upon learning his name meant that he had to have been strong enough to warrant his name being engraved into history. Tressa, meanwhile, had a small spear, and he supposed that she was probably more or less capable of using it. There was also a chance that she had learned some basic magic, similar to how he could form a pretty nasty spire of ice beneath something in a pinch, so he wouldn’t be too shocked if she could snap her fingers and light a fire like Therion, or stun animals with a palmful of electricity like H’aanit. 

Ophilia... well, he supposed that she could probably give someone a pretty nasty goose egg if she ever were possessed with a rage animalistic enough that she took a swing at someone with her staff. It was solid metal, for one, and a bit heavier than he’d expect a slender young woman to wield, to boot. 

He felt rather sorry for the poor fucker who’d eventually piss her off to the point to get a wallop to the noggin.

“So he went out of his way to help you...” Alfyn mused, and Olberic nodded.

“Aye, he did. Though he did not know if we could be trusted, he still tried to help us.” 

Olberic gave a faint smile then. “Were it not for his aid, there’s a good chance that Tressa might not have received help in time. We’ve both mentioned it separately, but we remain thankful regardless.”

The ex-knight’s voice was thoughtful, genuine. 

Even in that day alone, how many people were grateful for Therion?

Himself, of course, because he always was, for varying reasons, as well as Tressa and Olberic.  _They_ certainly were, after what had happened the other night. Otherwise, the rest of the travelers were, for varying reasons (spanning from help in fending off creatures and in paying for things, to helping to sweet-talk his way out of unsavoury situations, among other, smaller things). Flynn and Ellen and Marlene certainly were, for both helping with the moss and, apparently, donating money to them for new shoes. And though it was indirect, the rest of those swindled by Vanessa were thankful for him being there, since he had ensured that Alfyn had managed to come back and live to tell the tale in the first place, let alone brew the cure from the moss, and what? What would have happened to him if Therion hadn’t come along to help fend them off?

He knew the answer, and the thought of him potentially rotting away in the cave while the rest of the poor were dumped into a mass grave sat heavily on his mind, chilled him when he thought for too long about it. He had known since it had happened, since yesterday, since he had sat across from him in the tavern and while he _knew_ it, he still realized that, without Therion’s help, he probably wouldn’t have  _ been  _ there, walking with the rest of them on their way to Stonegard, and it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He could have  _ died _ . Dozens of people could have died, including a little girl named Flynn, and a traveling apothecary named Alfyn. 

The thought of leaving Zeph alone in the world save for his sister nearly made him cry, right then and there. If Therion hadn’t helped him, then Zeph might have gotten a black-bordered envelope in the mail from one of the other travelers, condolences scrawled out, lamentations left, tears warping the paper, and Zeph would probably sob for a long, long time upon reading it. 

That future could very easily have come into fruition, had Therion not come with him.

The scenery slowly changed as the altitude increased, the sounds of the sea getting farther away and the wind picking up, howling a lonely note around the cliffs. Alfyn swallowed and felt his ears adjust to the pressure, popping. For a moment, there was silence, then the sounds of the others talking came back, filtering back in to his head. Cyrus declared that this was a rather nice spot to stop for lunch, what with that rock face over there that would serve as a bench, and the others agreed, Alfyn included. Their breakfasts had been burned off by then, and his stomach growled, awaiting a new round of food. 

Not five minutes later, everyone sat on various rocks or the ground, unwrapping their packed lunches, chewing and idly talking, laughing, or else sitting back and watching the birds flit over thin clouds, lurking in the shadows. 

Well, the latter really only applied to Therion, and Alfyn wanted to laugh. Though he remained an enigma in a good many ways, in others, he was delightfully predictable. 

Alfyn observed him for a bit. He sat in a patch of shade, gazing impassively at the sky, eating in silence. His back was pressed firmly against the rock, pose deceptively relaxed. By then, Alfyn understood that while he seemed calm, while he appeared lost in thought, he probably wasn’t— Therion’s muscles were almost always stretched like bowstrings, eye deliberately unfocused to allow him to notice movement faster, one foot and hand positioned to shove him upright in a matter of seconds. True, he wasn’t  _ as _ openly uncomfortable as before. Alfyn caught him daydreaming now, sometimes, or else relaxing more than he might have allowed himself to do before, easing his tension out and focusing more on his meal than on his possible escape, on their conversations (even though he tried to give off the impression that he didn’t really care about what they said), on their surroundings. 

Alfyn had even been able to sketch him a few times without him noticing, a fact that he was extremely proud of.

In fact, as the group rested their legs and let their meals digest a little, Alfyn took out his sketchbook and graphite and started to draw. It wasn’t much of  a sketchbook, really— all it was was a cheap unruled notebook, all he could really afford with his way of life, but he treasured it nonetheless. 

The others were rather engrossed in their conversations, and didn’t notice Alfyn map out the rocks to warm up, filling in the shadows with sharp, precise hatching. He wouldn’t consider himself a professional or anything, but he knew that he wasn’t  _ bad _ . Zeph had often marveled over his sketches, enthusing about how good he was getting, and Alfyn would laugh it off, wave a hand, blush from the praise. 

He wasn’t  _ great _ , as far as he was concerned, but he was alright, and he spent some time drawing Therion. 

By some miracle, Therion didn’t notice. Tressa, however, did, and came over to show him some of her own work, which she had been including in that mysterious diary that she had apparently acquired from a famous ex-pirate captain ( _ “But I promise he’s not a pirate anymore! Captain Leon told me that he’s become a merchant now, and I believe him.” _ ). Her drawings were in a style that was quite different from his own, more whimsical and round overall, and he liked them quite a bit. He told her so, and she was delighted, puffing her chest out from pride, and he laughed.

Aside from that lively conversation, though, he still didn’t have much to say. The others, by then, had started to notice, and he just laughed and waved it off, saying he was just a bit tired, but he was okay, promise, he just didn’t sleep great last night, and he’d be all better by tomorrow, probably. 

It wasn’t really a complete lie, since he had had a pretty shitty sleep last night. Alfyn had been overthinking, tossing and turning from anxiety, wondering what if, what if, what _if_...?

He knew not to overthink, that it would only hurt him if he did, but he still found himself unable to stop.

At several points during the night, his gaze had kept fixating on Therion’s bed, as if he was waiting for him to get up and sneak out again. He didn’t— Therion was clearly asleep, body limp and expression unguarded, but he still felt nervous if he tried to relax and go to sleep, still worried that he would wake to find the bed empty and his belongings gone, still wondered if he might have to get used to traveling without him there, and it almost made him laugh. What was  _ with _ him? What was with this crush, with how persistent it was, with how deeply it hurt to think about? 

Thinking about Therion himself was lovely. It filled him with a strange sense of peace, with a fluttery feeling similar to waiting for a surprise, made him feel dizzy in the nicest possible way, made his stomach churn, made his hands shake. It was like being sick, in some ways, the same kind of delirious jitters, the irrational thinking, the vague discomfort of nausea born from anxiety, and he liked it, to a degree (save for the nausea, which was decidedly less fun). His face often felt warm, his movements became clumsier, and he found himself fussing in front of the mirror more, at times, shoving his hair this way and that and wondering if Therion even liked it at all (because he said at one point that he didn’t, didn’t he...?).

Overall, that feeling wasn’t too bad. He would gladly soak himself in the warmth it brought him whenever they made eye contact, whenever Therion drank from his cup, whenever he fell asleep near him and looked as peaceful as he did, as beautiful as he was beneath the starlight.

Yet, when he realized that the most likely end result was him breaking paths with them, with him waiting until he fell asleep and darting off into the darkness, or even _with_ him telling them that he would be leaving (like Alfyn himself had requested to him, that one time), it hurt to think about. 

It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it  _ hurt _ , and he didn’t understand it. 

Well, he did, because of course he did— he liked Therion, and he wanted him to stick around (and if he ever happened to feel even a sliver of interest towards him that way, he might just die happy, right then and there). But, he also didn’t, because he should just  _ know _ not to expect anything, because it  _ probably wouldn’t happen, so why bother thinking too much about it? _

He couldn’t help it, though. He really couldn't.

As the rest of them gathered their things back up and stood, stretching out their backs and checking over the map, Alfyn looked back and saw the stack of rocks that Tressa had pointed out earlier off in the distance. It looked rather a bit smaller than he expected, all the way up from there, and he felt strange. After all, that rock formation itself was quite far outside the town. 

This told him that Therion had been walking for a long time before finding them, before turning around and guiding them back to him, only getting to the inn just as the sun was about to rise. 

And if he hadn’t.........

“Comen thou with us, Alfyn?” H’aanit asked, Linde tilting her head, and he could see the concern in her eyes, the curiosity. She, too, was aware that he had been acting strangely all day.

He did his best to smile, to shake off the tiredness that was surely embedded in his eyes, in the line in his brow. It probably wasn’t very convincing to H’aanit, who could read the hearts of animals like a fortune-teller and her tarot cards, but he tried regardless. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m comin’. Was just admirin’ the view.” 

And she clearly knew better, judging by the vague look of  _ Weren thou verily...? _ in her stare, but she simply nodded and walked beside him, Linde in between. 

His gaze was locked on Therion’s back, and she noticed.

He sighed.

And though it was a bit awkward, as she was clearly unused to this, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, patting it.

Therion may have apologized, but what he had said in the tavern still applied— it would still sting for a little, and he hoped, above all, that it wouldn’t feel this horrible for much longer.

 

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

They were well into the Highlands by the time they broke for the night, setting up camp in a sheltered place and sleeping through to the morning. Nothing particularly interesting happened, as Alfyn was still feeling a little down, and the others were distracted somewhat by H’aanit’s restless mood— she would attempt to find more information about her Master in Stonegard, though they all knew that there was a chance that the trail would run cold there.

Otherwise, there was Therion, and something was off about him, too. 

Alfyn wasn’t completely sure what it was. Therion was often quiet, so his lack of conversation wasn’t too unusual. He packed up his things and ate breakfast, strapped his weapons back onto his body, and walked with the rest of them, like usual. 

He was tense now, though. 

Alfyn wasn’t too sure what it was, and he didn’t really want to ask. He supposed that it could have been a nightmare, perhaps, or maybe a poor sleep in general. Perhaps he was just tired, or didn’t love sleeping outside, or was just simply in a bad mood. 

Perhaps it was something more complicated, a new problem that hadn’t come up before. All he knew was that he wanted to help, but he didn’t know how. 

He didn’t know how, and, perhaps even worse, he didn’t know how to ask.

The path was somewhat more narrow in places than they were elsewhere, being alongside a mountain and next to a cliff, and Therion lingered a bit closer to him than usual, all hard lines and clenched fists, eyes locked firmly on the ground. 

Alfyn tried talking to him, but only got vague noises, slight approximations of responses to questions, and otherwise shrugs and muttered replies, clearly trying to tell him to leave him alone. This, too, wasn’t incredibly new from him, but it still seemed strange, somehow. While Therion was hardly  _ warm _ to him, or even especially sociable, he would still  _ talk _ to him, sometimes, when prompted with a question or an opinion. In fact, not long before they had crossed into the borders of the Highlands, he was on the verge of talkative, on a few occasions.

He was hardly doing any of that now, and it felt weird. 

The other travelers talked around them, and Alfyn did his best to chat back with them. It was fine, sometimes, and he’d forget for a little while about Therion’s reticence, about how he’d barely said anything for the past day or so. Tressa’s colourful stories about Rippletide and Cyrus’s impromptu history lessons were entertaining, and the rest of them filled in with their own memories and stories, Alfyn included, and it was fun. 

Therion, of course, didn’t. He never really did, but he didn’t even seem to be listening this time, where Alfyn was normally certain that he was eavesdropping regardless. His gaze remained on the road, one hand lightly tracing the rocks on his right, staying as far from the cliff as possible.

It hit him then, in that instant— Therion was walking on his right. 

It was something that he had only really noticed somewhat recently— if Therion walked near him, he always walked on his left. If Alfyn placed himself on Therion’s right, he would always trail behind for half a step, reposition himself somewhere on his left. 

Alfyn had been thinking about it for some time now, observing him whenever they walked together. He didn’t do  _ everything _ on his left— he’d sleep on whichever bed was closer to the door and he’d sit on whichever seat was available (though, if he had the choice, he’d default to the one on his left). It didn’t  _ bother _ him, per se, because why would it? Therion was a creature of habit, and he seemed to have a few superstitions and rituals about him, so deeply interwoven with his personality that he doubted that Therion himself always noticed them. He always checked the windows of the inn rooms they shared and always locked doors behind him. He always held his food on his tongue for a moment, as if he was checking for some kind of hidden poison, and seemed significantly more comfortable with eating and drinking if he sampled some of Alfyn’s food first. 

He was a strange person, but Alfyn figured that most of those odd habits were built from consequence, as if he’s learned the hard way what happens if he neglects any of those. 

Out of all of them, him sticking consistently to his left seemed the strangest. 

It only occurred to him, though, whenever he had to awkwardly try and thump him lightly on the shoulder with his left hand, or when he reached back and took his axe out from its loop, that Therion might have stood on his left simply  _ because _  Alfyn was right-handed, and it was harder for him to grab or attack Therion with his clumsy left hand, should he ever feel the need.

He couldn’t have blamed him, but it still felt sad to think about, and not necessarily because he interpreted it as an attack on his character. That wasn’t it at all. To a wanderer like Therion, that was probably the smartest way to live. Anybody could be an ally... and anybody could be an enemy. 

Still, though, he couldn’t help but to lament that Therion, despite having travelled with them for this much time, still didn’t seem capable of fully trusting him. 

He was aware that he was also quite lucky. Growing up in Clearbrook, surrounded by friends and family and kindly neighbours had treated him well, and, as a result, he was almost  _ too _ trusting at times, always giving out the benefit of the doubt, always at least  _ trying _ to like people before deciding what he actually thought of them.

The whole thing with Vanessa had really cemented that in, for him.

So, the fact that Therion seemed to deem the Highlands unpleasant enough to warrant moving to Alfyn’s right side told him something pretty simple— Therion was scared of heights, and he found Alfyn potentially turning on him to be the lesser of the two evils. He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or not.

Regardless, Therion remained on his right, silent and always keeping a hand to the rocks, and the group walked on.

And, around noon, the group came to a bridge.

H’aanit, who had migrated to the front of the line, went over it, Linde at her heels. Ophilia followed, then Tressa. Olberic went after her, then Cyrus, who had started reading and walking and therefore probably wasn’t even aware that he was on a bridge. All of them made it over without any problems, and they glanced back, awaiting the rest.

Alfyn was next. The bridge swayed in the winds, and Therion stopped walking. 

“What's up?” Alfyn asked, glancing over at him, and he took in the paleness of his face, the discomfort in his stance. Therion's focus was glued to the bridge, and he only seemed to remember that Alfyn was there when he took a small step towards him, head tilted in a question.

“Hey, bud,” Alfyn said, smiling gently, and Therion's hands balled into fists.

“D- _ don't _ . Don't,” he bit out, stepping back a touch. “I'm  _ fine _ .”

Now, Alfyn had heard this kind of attitude about a hundred times from various people in the village, from kids that tried to pretend that they weren’t scared, and from adults who attempted to convince him that they didn’t need help, and he wasn’t sold. Therion wasn’t fine, and he had, quite frankly, known for a  _ long  _ time that he wasn’t (not  _ really _ , anyways).

But, he knew not to push too hard, not to embarrass him about it. Therion had problems, sure. Everyone did. Alfyn knew that even he had plenty of his own. Because of that, he also knew that humiliating him would only make things worse. 

Having said that, however, he couldn’t just shrug and say  _ Okay, see you later then _ , turn away and cross the bridge and leave Therion behind... even though that was probably exactly what Therion was expecting, what he was waiting for him to do, and he gave a small frown. He would never leave him behind. 

“Hey!” called a voice, and Alfyn and Therion looked over, finding Tressa on the other side, Ophilia nearby. “You guys good?” 

Alfyn shot a quick look at Therion, at the stormy expression, and realized that him being able to see the other travelers waiting was probably stressing him out a good deal. 

“Yeah, we’re good!” he replied, shooting a thumbs-up. “Go on ahead, though. We’ll be there in a sec, alright?” 

He didn’t want to explicitly say  _ why _ , for fear of upsetting Therion, and he was grateful when Ophilia seemed to understand, leading Tressa and the others away with words they couldn’t hear. 

The other travelers disappeared over the crest of a small hill, and Alfyn turned his attention back towards Therion. He hadn’t moved, aside from shifting his focus back to the path beneath his feet, glaring hard enough to nearly bore holes through it. He didn't acknowledge Alfyn.

The wind whistled a long, lonely note around the peaks. It tugged at Therion’s shawl, pulling it close to his body. Its loose silhouette did a good job normally of masking how slim he really was, but with it like this, windswept and snug against his skin, he truly looked small.

“... Not a fan of heights?” he asked, eventually, trying to ease him out of whatever rut he had surely gotten himself into in his brain, and Therion made a very small, very bitter laugh. 

“... You could... say that,” he replied, almost too softly to be heard, and Alfyn chose to see it as progress, of sorts. 

“Ah, yeah... I don’t really blame ya,” Alfyn said, sympathetically. Therion's eyes had moved back to look at him, and he seemed vaguely curious. “I can’t say I’m a fan a these bridges, honestly. I mean, I  _ know _ they’re solid enough, but... the swayin’ always sends a chill down my spine, y’know?”

As if to illustrate it, a shudder wracked his core. Therion seemed to notice that, and rolled his eyes. 

“So I’m gonna guess you ain’t much a fan of the bridges, either, huh?” Alfyn ventured, receiving a small nod. It was more of a vague shrug than anything, really, but the reluctance in his eyes filled in the blanks well enough. 

Another silence passed. Alfyn wasn’t getting impatient by any means, but he still didn’t exactly want for them to take so long that the others came back to look for them. After all, Therion didn’t like showing vulnerability, if he could help it. Waiting so long to cross a simple bridge that the others started to worry would probably wound him deeply, destroy his pride and his self-esteem in one fell swoop, and Alfyn didn’t want to see that happen, if he could help it. 

He was sorely lacking, after all, by what small glimpses into his heart that Alfyn had chanced upon, and it hurt to see.

“... Why don’t you just go on ahead?” Therion muttered, half annoyed and half humiliated, wary, uncomfortable. “Just...  _ go _ . I’m fine.”

And oh, gods, Alfyn wanted nothing more than to say  _ No, Therion, you're not, you’re not fine with this _ , but he didn’t. That could only ever come out as an insult, as a jab or a slap or something equally jarring, equally painful, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that to him. 

So, instead, Alfyn said the first thing that came into his mind. 

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re fine. Thing is, um... th-the thing is, I’m kinda scared.” 

Well, it wasn’t  _ entirely _ a lie. In fact, it wasn’t really a lie at all— he truly was nervous about walking on the bridge. His hands would be glued firmly on the ropes until his feet touched solid ground once more, and if the wind picked up halfway across, he’d probably scream like Nina upon finding a spider. But, he could still  _ do it _ . 

Therion, though... might not be able to. 

“... You’re... scared,” repeated Therion, flatly, as if he didn’t really believe it, and Alfyn nodded.  _ Make it about you, not him _ .

“Y-yeah. It, um... we don’t really have bridges this high up in the Riverlands, y’know? So I’m just... not really used to ones like this...”

Therion blinked up at him, searching. His expression was less angry and more uncertain now, which Alfyn supposed was an improvement.

“... So... you’re saying that... you want me to go with you,” he supposed, slowly, clearly doubting that that was what Alfyn had been getting at.

“Y-yeah, that’s it,” he responded, running fingers through his hair. “It’s... um... it’s embarrassin’, but... y-y’know, if you could just... I dunno, hold on to my bag, or my mantle, or... w-whatever, so I know you’re there. That would be real nice.” 

He dearly hoped that Therion wouldn't decline, that he wouldn't think too hard about this, but he seemed too stressed to think of anything snarky. 

“....Fine. I guess,” he relented, almost too quietly for Alfyn to hear. “Let’s get this over with.” 

_ So far so good _ .

Alfyn smiled and gave him a  _ Thank you _ , and Therion just huffed, scowled up at him. 

“Y-yeah, yeah. Whatever. Let’s just hurry. Everyone’s waiting.” 

They approached the bridge, with Therion staying a pace or so behind Alfyn. Alfyn wanted to compliment him on his bravery, but didn’t. Not yet.

Just before he stepped on the bridge, he cast a glance backwards, finding Therion lingering, eyes fixed on the drop below the footboards. 

However, as soon as he saw Alfyn looking, he seemed to snap himself out of it. His expression became something closer to irate, and it was so clearly a façade that it hurt to look at.

Were this Zeph, or even one of the other travelers, Alfyn might have laid a hand on their shoulder, squeezed their hand, patted them on the back, and tried to comfort them, encourage them, whatever they needed.

Therion... probably wouldn’t take kindly to any of those things. And while he didn’t blame him, nor judge him for it...

_ I just want to help you, _ Alfyn thought, watching Therion’s focus flicker back to the bridge as it creaked in the breeze.  _ I want to help you, and I don’t know how. _

“You ready?” Alfyn asked, giving a nervous smile, and Therion hesitated.

It was only for a moment, though. He closed his eyes and gave a short, sharp nod.

“... Sure. Fine. Let’s get this over with, medicine man.”

Alfyn liked the nickname, and he always smiled when he heard it.  _ Medicine man. _

“Alrighty. Let’s go.” 

He turned back to the bridge and reached out, taking the side ropes in hand. 

Behind him, he felt Therion’s grip close around the strap of Zeph’s bag.

It shouldn’t have made his heart beat faster, shouldn’t have made his smile grow, but it did regardless. Therion being close to him was still incredibly exciting, for how little it happened, but he stored it away for later. He could write out a very incoherent, sickly-sweet letter afterwards. Gods know that Zeph would eat it up, probably laughing over a drink as he thought of his idiot best friend not just stumbling, but pitching right off a cliff and diving into a pool of love, shaking his head and scribbling out a reply of  _ Gods, Alfyn, you’re completely hopeless _ , and he’d be right.

He was hopeless, but he still knew well enough to not lose himself in rose-tinted fantasies right then— Therion was relying on him, even though he might never admit it, nor even consciously think that he was, and he had to help him. 

He was an apothecary (a  _ good _ apothecary, because that was apparently something he now needed to specify, after Goldshore), and that was what he did. 

And, more importantly, Therion was his friend. 

So, he stepped out onto the planks, and he heard Therion suck in a small breath. 

But, he still followed, and Alfyn walked on.    

Something about this felt oddly nostalgic, in a way, recalling the tremble in Zeph’s hands as he clasped the hem of his shirt, a young Alfyn valiantly walking before him and pretending that the dark didn’t scare him just as badly as it did Zeph. If he was too busy thinking about how Zeph could rely on him, if he  _ seemed _ confident enough to ease his anxiety, then it was hard to be as scared. 

This was exactly the same thing, in a way. The shifting of the bridge in the wind made Therion squeeze the strap of his bag harder, giving a slight, silent resistance that spelled out just how scared he really was, and Alfyn focused on Therion’s wordless fear, on his unsteady steps. He couldn’t think about much else.

“Just over halfway,” Alfyn said, and he heard a small, tense noise of acknowledgement. He really hoped that he wasn’t staring at the drop below. But, he didn’t really want to tell him not to. 

In some ways, the trek across the bridge felt like it took an hour. However, it all condensed into the span of a minute at most by the time they stepped onto the other side, shivery from adrenaline.

“Whoo!” Alfyn exhaled, laughing from relief. “Man, am I glad that shit’s over.” 

Therion didn’t reply, aside from a small breath. He seemed to be agreeing, maybe.

“Thanks, man,” Alfyn said, sincerely, turning to look at him. “Without your help, that could’ve been a lot more embarrassin’ for me, hehehe...” 

As he turned, he felt a bit of resistance— Therion’s hand was still enclosed around the strap of his bag. With his movement, he let go, however, and Alfyn missed that small connection.

“... I just... walked behind you, though,” Therion replied, confused. “I didn’t...  _ do  _ anything.” 

Alfyn smiled.  _ You did more than you can even begin to imagine, Therion. _

“Sure ya did. With you right behind me, it was hard to feel too scared, y’know? I mean, you had my back. Makes a guy feel a lot safer.” 

Therion was silent for a moment. His expression was complicated, as if Alfyn had said something that didn’t make sense, and Alfyn didn’t really understand where the problem lay. He wasn’t lying about any of that. He really did feel safer, bridge or no, with Therion covering him. 

A hawk screeched out its cry above them. Alfyn watched it circle. Perhaps it had spotted a rat. 

“... You feel safer with me behind you?” Therion eventually asked, tone uncertain, and Alfyn giggled. 

“Well, I mean, just bein’ around you in general. But yeah, in that situation, you bein’ behind me was real reassuring. Like, just knowin’ that you were right there. It was... nice, y’know? I mean... I trust you.”

His voice, brash as it was, had steadily softened as he spoke, dying down to something barely any louder than a summer’s breeze by the end, and Therion’s eyes widened a touch. 

But, just as quickly as they softened, his expression steeled itself again. 

“... Stupid,” he muttered, and if Therion’s cheeks looked pinker than usual, Alfyn didn’t comment on it. “It’s stupid to trust people with your back.” 

_ I mean, even if you were untrustworthy, I kinda doubt that you’d try to stab me and dispose of my body off the side of a rickety bridge, but alright. _ “It sure can be, yeah, but... I mean, I trust you anyways. I definitely trust you with my back, Therion.” 

It wasn’t much of a confession, really, to Alfyn, because he trusted all of them. Within reason, of course, he didn’t see anything objectionable to any of them using his supplies or borrowing his money, or whatever else they needed of him, let alone simply standing behind him. 

But, he was starting to see that, perhaps, Therion had never really been around people he could trust like that. 

Or, if he did trust them, at one point....

“... W-we’re wasting time,” Therion muttered, brushing past him. “Let’s just go.” 

“Y-yeah, you’re right,” Alfyn replied, noting how, like earlier, Therion walked before him. His back was to him. “The others might be waitin’ by now...” 

_ You warn me that keeping my back to you is a bad idea, and then go and do it to me right after you say it...  _ Alfyn thought, watching him walk ahead.  _ So, you’re either trying to communicate to me that you trust me... or you don’t even know that you’re doing it. _

_ Knowing you, you’d get mad if I pointed it out. You’d go right back to always walking on my left or behind me, probably, because you don’t wanna trust me and I can tell that you don’t, even if I don’t really understand why.  _

_ I mean, I just want to help you. And, I guess if someone’s hurt you before, after you trusted them, then I can get why you don’t wanna get close to anyone ever again.  _

He didn't know how to help, but he’d try. He’d try as best as he damn well could, because in his eyes, Therion was worth it.

He supposed that Therion couldn’t have been too distrustful of him, nowadays— he walked ahead of him in the Cave of Azure and shortly before they got to the Highlands, had his back turned to him on the ship (from trying not to throw up, but even so) and even fell asleep near him, curling up beneath Alfyn’s mantle ( _ Did he even know that I draped that over him? _ ), sitting on a stump on the outskirts of the Flatlands, back facing them, lost in thought as he ate dinner, and he even drank the tea that Alfyn brewed for him, sipped from his coffee mug, sampled his food, let himself rest near him. Surely, if he pointed it out, Therion would deny it. He’d probably say that he was just tired, that he didn’t care, that he thought that Alfyn was too  _ stupid _ to kill him if he hadn’t already, by that point, and even just thinking that almost made Alfyn want to laugh— wasn’t that just trust, at the end of the day, reluctant as it was?

While he thought this, a startled scream echoed around the rocks.

Alfyn and Therion glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. That sounded an awful lot like Ophilia...

Another shout, this time from Cyrus. Therion and Alfyn quickened their pace, rushing up the path and around the corner, and found their companions being rushed by a pack of Ratkin, weapons drawn. There were a  _ lot _ of them, and they were definitely overwhelmed, by what Alfyn could tell.

“Hoooly shit,” he breathed, and Therion glanced over, eyes wide. He seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“What do we do?” Therion asked, hastily, eyes darting around, and Alfyn reached back, took out his axe. 

“What do we do?” he repeated, twirling the axe in his palm, smiling roguishly. “Easy. Jump in the fray n’ play pest control.”

With that, he ran off towards the pack, and Therion swore loudly, taking off after him. 

Alfyn, filled with vigour, swung back and sunk the business end of his axe into the nearest Ratkin’s neck, crushing its trachea instantaneously and splitting its spine. It wasn’t a pretty death, necessarily, nor one as quick as Alfyn would prefer, but it crumpled regardless, incapacitated, whiskers twitching weakly. Good enough. He moved on to the next one, and the next one, chopping them down like saplings. 

Meanwhile, Therion had drawn his sword and was fending off a couple of Ratkin himself, managing to stagger one and run the blade of his sword straight through its chest. It let out a pitiful noise halfway between a squeak and a cry, and Therion braced his foot against its torso, yanking the blade out and spinning on his heel. The sword traced an arc around him, droplets of blood flying in a semicircle, and cleaved through the next Ratkin’s belly. Though he hardly fought like Olberic, who fought them as if they were made of little more than paper, or even anywhere near as cleanly or as accurately as he did with a dagger, he was still capable of holding his own, and that was good enough for him then.

The fight wore on. Cyrus used his magic on those that were furthest away, and H’aanit shot down the mid-range beasts. Otherwise, Olberic chopped down swathes of the Ratkin with his greatsword, blood and viscera and fragments of bone flying about. Alfyn hacked away at all the ones he could reach, and Therion did the same. 

And, for a time, things were going alright, all things considered.

A loud clattering and a shout made Alfyn glance over, and he saw Therion sprawled back on the ground before a Ratking, about six feet from the cliffside. His sword lay further away, out of reach. This monster was significantly larger than the rest of the horde, easily over six feet tall, and much stronger. The hatchet it wielded must have caught on the blade and ripped it from his hands. 

Normally, Therion would probably have run off by then, or dodged it, or even climbed onto its back to slit its throat that way. But the proximity to the cliff seemed to glue him to the rocks, white-knuckled fists holding fast to the stone, and Alfyn realized that, with where he was, with the paleness of his face and the wide-eyed terror... that he wouldn’t do anything to save himself. 

Therion couldn’t fight. He couldn't fight, and he couldn't move.

The Ratking raised its hatchet. 

Therion did nothing.

And, just before it swung the weapon down, Alfyn ran.

He didn’t even think about it. He broke away from the rest of the pack without a word, without a thought, sprinting over as quickly as he could, and got in front of Therion just in time to shield him, arms crossed in front of him. 

“A-Alfyn?!” Therion stammered, just as a wave of pain tore over his arm. The hatchet sliced deep into the meat of his right forearm, scraping down to the bone, and Alfyn let out a short scream, flinching back. It hurt  _ hideously _ , flesh cut jagged by the crudeness of the blade, and he winced as the blood trickled down his hand and onto the handle of his axe. He'd be okay, he reassured himself. Deep, very painful, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. 

“Alfyn,  _ fuck _ , a-are you okay?!” Therion gasped, but Alfyn didn’t have time to reply; the Ratking was winding up for another hit, and he parried it with his axe, slamming it back with enough strength to stagger it. The force of the impact sent a wave of pain through his arm, and he groaned.

“I’m good!” he shouted back, readying to hit it again. “Just sit tight, okay? I’ll keep ya safe!” 

And by the gods, would he do anything to keep him safe. 

Their weapons collided once more. Alfyn pushed back as hard as he could, trying to lead it away from Therion. His axe was starting to get slippery from blood, and he readjusted his grip, cursing. He had to be careful, lest it slide from his hands mid-swing and fly off. 

“Guys!!” he called, blocking another hit, and he risked a glance over, finding that the majority of the Ratkin were down. Still, though, most of the others were occupied, fighting them off directly or otherwise hanging back, staying safe.

"Alfyn!" Tressa shouted, up from a safe ledge. "Alfyn, you okay?!" 

"Y-yeah!" he shouted, sidestepping an attack. "But I could use—  _fuck_!" The beast had caught him with its claws, changing its approach. "I could use some help over here!!"

They fought, but, even as they cut them down, even as they knocked them back and slaughtered them, there were still so  _ many _ of them. More climbed over the rocks, slid down the edges of the cliffs. Alfyn couldn’t even fathom where the  _ fuck _ they were all coming from or why. Did they stumble over a nest? Were they migrating?

He didn’t know, and he readied his axe again, clashing once more with the Ratking. 

Though he couldn’t see it, behind him, Therion very slowly edged along the ground, oozing sweat as he shuffled away from the cliffside. 

Alfyn was starting to realize that, with the wound in his arm bleeding and slicking his axe with blood, he really couldn’t hold his own too easily against the monster. He was getting tired and shaky, adrenaline leaving him weary, and he spat out a mouthful of lactic acid, re-adjusting his grip yet again. He’d protect Therion.

No matter what. No matter what. 

No matter—

“A-Alfyn!” Therion shouted, panicked, and he tried to turn, tried to see what was wrong.

“Theri—”

A cold, searing, agonizing pain slammed itself into Alfyn’s back, just below one of his lungs, and Therion let out something that sounded almost like a scream. Alfyn shouted, losing his grip on his axe, knees threatening to buckle, and he tried to turn to see what happened, tried to look, but something held him in place. He realized with that that he had been stabbed, and a small, toneless noise came from his chest. The Ratking raised its hatchet once more, aiming directly for his head.  _ Dohter help me. _

**_Thwap_ ** _! _ An arrow lodged itself in the skull of the Ratking, the point piercing the back of its skull and protruding from its eye, splashing Alfyn with some of its blood. It cried out, one clawed hand reaching up to feel it, but it lost power partway through, succumbing to its wounds and collapsing, hatchet bouncing off of the stone with a loud clattering. It was dead, thankfully, and Alfyn switched his attention to the Ratkin behind him, trying to figure out how to get his way out of this situation. He'd be okay. He wasn’t stabbed anywhere that was fatal by itself. He wasn’t going to die from this yet. He—

The knife was torn out, and all of Alfyn’s thoughts stopped cold, replaced instead with a pain so toe-curlingly intense that he nearly blacked out. He didn’t even realize that he was screaming until he ran out of air, gasping raggedly, unable to think or move or speak.  _ Gods _ , but that  _ hurt _ . 

Hands grabbed him from behind, and he was helpless but to follow the monster’s steps, weakly stumbling along. He was being brought closer to the cliffside, and though he did his best to resist it, to try and anchor his feet to the stone, he couldn’t. 

The edge of the cliff drew nearer to his left, and he found himself glancing down, head spinning at the sheer depth of the drop. 

It was so far down, he realized. Falling from this height would kill him instantly. No exceptions. No miracles. All that awaited him at the bottom was spires of rock and trees, all of which would break him apart like a ceramic doll were he to land on top of them.

He could die. He could die. He could die... 

Was he going to die like this?

Suddenly, the grip holding him disappeared, and the Ratkin let out a sharp gargling cry, strangled from pain. It sounded as if it had been hit in the throat. 

Then, a new pair of hands took Alfyn and yanked him to the right as hard as possible, upsetting his balance and knocking him to the ground. He rolled back, groaning from the pain of the impact and his injuries, and saw Therion marching up to the Ratkin, pulling his dagger from its neck with a spray of blood. 

Then, without even hesitating, he gave it a hard kick to the ribs, driving it off of the edge of the precipice and sending it flying, dropping like a stone that fell into a pond, and it vanished.

Alfyn stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide.

At the cliffside, framed by the afternoon sun, Therion was breathing heavily, shaking all over, fists clenched so hard that his hands were almost completely white.

Ophilia climbed down from her ledge and rushed over as quickly as possible, praying to Aelfric to lend her some of his strength, and Alfyn was bathed in a soft blue light, shivering at the feeling of magic soaking into his skin. It felt good, especially compared to the agony radiating through his back, the cut in his arm, and he felt them start to seal up, the cells in his skin tingling all the while. 

The rest of the Ratkin were either dead by then or had started to scurry away, scrambling back over the rocks, and the others made their way towards Alfyn and Therion, worry etched into their brows.

“ _Goodness_ , Alfyn,” Cyrus breathed, crouching down to look at his wounds. “Are you quite alright? You took some rather nasty hits.”

Alfyn groaned. Oh, _ just peachy, thanks...  _ They hurt like a bitch, but he just gave a laugh that was as casual as he could produce despite the circumstances, waving his uninjured arm. “Y-yeah.... yeah, nah, I’m good. Takes... ghh... It’ll take a helluva lot more to stop me, heheh.” 

Really, he was mostly trying to psyche himself up, since the combination of the adrenaline and the pain both made him feel somewhat like he might shit his pants if he weren’t careful, but the others didn’t need to know that.

“I wager that we may have disturbed a nest,” Olberic supposed, wiping the blood from his sword with a cloth. “There were several on the path already by the time we rounded the corner, and they began calling for reinforcements as soon as they spotted us.”

“Well, hey, we got rid of a lot of them!” Tressa said, gesturing at the piles of bodies. “Maybe thanks to us it’ll be safer for other travelers to pass through?” 

Alfyn supposed that their impromptu culling definitely wouldn’t be a  _ problem _ to other travelers trying to get through the Highlands, and he agreed with her. The bodies decaying, however, probably would be, but it seemed that H’aanit was already on it, dragging the corpses away to dump off the edge of the cliff. Olberic went over to help her. Alfyn would, too, but he knew well enough not to aggravate his wounds where he could help it. 

Speaking of wounds, his back was feeling much better, and he could no longer see his ulna peeking through his arm, so that was a major improvement. Ophilia, however, had to call off her magic when she started to feel dizzy, apologizing profusely for not being able to do this for longer, but Alfyn didn’t mind at all. It was hard work. Besides, he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up anymore, so he was happy with that. 

He stood, and Ophilia excused herself to rest for a moment. H’aanit went over to check up on her. Alfyn poured some of his water over his arm to wash it out, deciding to take a proper look at it at an inn, or else at their campsite, if need be. It would need stitches, but they could wait a little longer.

He’d survive. It wasn’t the first time he’s needed stitches. 

During the excitement over Ophilia healing him, everyone had naturally focused on him, and not on Therion, who remained motionless, head tilted back and eyes shut, fists balled. The only exception, aside from Alfyn, was Cyrus, who seemed to be silently observing him. It made sense to Alfyn— he was a teacher, and while Therion wasn’t his student, strictly speaking... he was still about the age of his pupils, and so he worried about him regardless. 

“You might want to talk with him,” Cyrus murmured, so softly that Alfyn could barely hear it, even in their proximity. Therion certainly wouldn’t be able to discern what he was saying, from where he was standing. “... By what I can gather... I think that Therion is worried about you.”

_ Worried... about me...? _

“Do... be careful, though,” Cyrus advised him, smiling sadly. Alfyn found it remarkable how, even after camping in the wilds and helping to fight off monsters, that he still smelled of lavender. “I cannot help but to feel as if there may be more to his anxiety than your safety alone. Lend your support, but try not to dredge out what would only wound him with its removal.” 

_ Cyrus thinks that something more complicated happened to him than just being worried about me... so, probably something bigger than him being nervous about being really close to the edge of the cliff, too. _

Alfyn nodded, and Cyrus gave what was probably the most awkward echo of the little pats he liked to give his friends before leaving to chat with Olberic. He seemed absolutely enamoured with him, which made Alfyn chuckle to himself. Part of it was definitely to do with history. There was no doubt about that. A professor specializing on modern history coming across one of the Twin Blades of Hornburg, in the flesh? It wasn’t surprising that he ate up every single word that came from his mouth.

But, he figured that there might have been a little bit more to it than that. 

He smiled. It was cute, honestly. Cyrus looked like he daydreamed about Olberic sweeping him off of his feet and kissing him beneath the moonlight, and he supported that. Olberic was a nice guy, by what he could tell. 

As to whether Olberic would feel the same, well... perhaps time would tell, just as it would with him and Therion.

Speaking of, he turned his attention back towards him, observing. His posture was still rigid, unmoving, and he wondered if he was stuck in a trance of some kind, reliving something he might not have wanted to. He had nightmares, after all, that seemed to be old memories. So perhaps, how he was now...

Alfyn approached him almost nervously, watching for movement. Therion didn’t seem aware of anything aside from himself, a far cry from how alert he normally was.

Something really was bothering him, and Alfyn was worried.

He drew nearer. He reached out, then decided against it— Therion was still holding his dagger, blood dripping from the tip. 

“Hey, bud,” he greeted, softly, and Therion let out a tiny gasp, shuddering all over. “You alright?”

He wasn’t. Alfyn didn’t need to ask to know that Therion wasn’t alright. But, he did, and he received exactly the answer he expected— a tiny scoff, and a mumbled “ _ I’m fine, _ ” and he wiped his dagger, stowed it away. 

“... Are ya?” Alfyn tried asking, gently, and Therion turned to look at him. His stare was complex, frightened and sad and angry and worried, uncomfortable, relieved, a million and one other things that Alfyn had trouble sifting through, and he realized that, while Cyrus might have been right, to a degree, that didn’t seem to be it.

He didn’t know how to ask, though— Therion shuddered again and stepped away from the cliffside, away from everyone, pulling out his map and looking at it. Alfyn somehow got the impression he was only pretending to focus on it, though. He decided not to bother him until later.

The battle had worn everyone out, to varying degrees. Olberic mentioned that Stonegard wasn’t that far away from where they were then, and that they could likely make it there before nine at the latest, were they to carry on. Alfyn agreed to that, seeing as to how, while he didn’t  _ mind _ camping, he really did like the thought of sleeping in an actual bed a bit more. Cyrus and Ophilia nodded in agreement. While they had never said it outright, they really did prefer sleeping in real beds infinitely to the ground. 

So, they plotted their course to Stonegard, folded up the map, and set off again, with Ophilia leaning a bit on her staff and Alfyn trying to ignore the ache in his arm, in the wounds on his body. Several of the others offered to carry his bag, his belongings, but he just laughed, waved them off, told them that he had to do  _ something _ around here to feel useful. 

He carried his stuff, the others relaxed, and conversations started to pick up again, with Alfyn participating in most of them and listening to the rest, content. But, through the chatter, Alfyn started to notice that one voice was still missing. He glanced back, over his shoulder, and saw Therion trailing behind the rest of them, expression distant, hand skimming along the rocks. He looked unusually distracted... or perhaps upset. Whatever had shaken him up at the cliffside was clearly still bothering him.

Alfyn thought about calling out to him, but the words faded from his lips. It didn’t feel like the right time, with everyone else right there, listening.

Therion was silent the entire walk to town. That wasn’t unusual in itself, but it eventually spread to the rest of the group, for once, all conversations flickering and dying like candles in the breeze. Only the occasional words were passed between them as they wove through the mountain, and it persisted even as they entered Stonegard. 

The moon was high above them by that point. They entered the inn, and found that this one was almost completely vacant, with eight single-bed rooms available. All of the women went to bed right then, with the exception of H’aanit, who went with Olberic and Cyrus to the tavern to chat. Alfyn wanted to go with them, but he knew full well that he had to sit down to assess his wounds. Practice what you preach, or whatever.

And, as it turned out, he had a shadow that night; as he headed to his room, Therion went down the hall with him.

“Oh, you’re not goin’ to the tavern?” Alfyn asked, watching him shake his head. He didn't offer any reason why.

Alfyn frowned. Therion hadn’t said a single word after the cliff incident, and he was starting to get a bit concerned. Silence from Therion definitely wasn't rare, but silence for  _ this _ long was, admittedly, a bit strange.

Was he scared? Was he shaken up, still, from almost getting hit by that Ratking?

He came to his designated room and unlocked the door. Surprisingly, Therion followed. Alfyn hadn’t honestly been expecting that, since he knew well enough by then that Therion tended to spend as much time as he possibly could by himself, or at least off to the side. For him to follow him directly into his room (that they _weren't_ sharing) without being dragged by the wrist was nothing short of a miracle. 

“You wanna hang out?” Alfyn wondered, smiling. “Well, shucks, come on in.” 

Therion’s visible eye scowled at him, but he didn’t seem to disagree entirely. Good enough, Alfyn supposed.

Once they entered the room, Therion shut the door and locked it out of habit. At this point, Alfyn knew better than to question it. Instead, he just took off Zeph’s bag, placing it at the end of his bed.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna have to patch myself up a bit. Damned thing got me pretty good,” he added, chuckling remorsefully. 

Therion only nodded. His expression remained stormy, and Alfyn felt uncomfortable by it. Maybe it would pass, though. Maybe being inside would help, somehow.

He didn't know. He didn't know what Therion  _needed_. 

He took his boots off and shrugged his mantle off, hanging it up on a hook by the door. Therion silently watched him unbutton his vest and sling it over the back of the chair. He seemed to be thinking about something.

With that, Alfyn was left in just his pants and his white shirt, which was torn in several places. Alfyn ran his finger along the rips, sighing.  _ Fuckin monsters. _

“Damn, and I  _ liked _ this shirt, too...” he muttered, carefully slipping it over his head.  _ Least I brought some spares with me.... _

Alfyn looked over to find that Therion had since opened up the apothecary bag and was rummaging through it. He laughed, shaking his head.  _ Typical. _

“Hey, Master Thief, you’re not gonna find anything you’re gonna want in there. But since you’re lookin’, could you pass me some blue salve? It’s in the—” 

“The left pocket,” Therion cut him off, speaking for the first time in hours. “I know. That’s actually what I was looking for.” 

Was it now? Alfyn’s eyebrows shot up. Therion... wanted to help? 

He wordlessly passed the jar of salve to Alfyn, who smiled and accepted it.

“Heh, thanks. Ophilia’s prayers sealed up the real deep shit, but there’s a couple that still need some TLC.”

Therion didn’t say anything, but Alfyn could feel his eyes glued to his skin as he unscrewed the jar and spread it over his wounds. He almost wanted to laugh as he caught Therion looking through his peripheral vision. Come to think of it, this might have been the first time that he’s been shirtless around Therion. Maybe he was a bit surprised?

_ D'you like what you see, Master Thief...?? _

He looked, then, suddenly, making eye contact and smiling playfully, and Therion averted his gaze immediately, scowling into his scarf. It could have been due to the low light, but Alfyn swore that he saw a blush on his cheeks. He giggled and went back to applying the salve.  _ Gotcha. _

Therion, in return for being caught, seemed to be looking very fixedly at the floorboards. Alfyn, meanwhile, was distracted by applying the salve. The soft scent of the concoction filled the room. It was nostalgic, to him, since this was the very first thing that Zeph’s father had taught them, back when they were about ten years old. Unsurprisingly, their first batches weren’t particularly potent, watery and poorly-mixed, but Zeph’s father had been proud regardless, placing hands on their shoulders and praising them.

_ Is is actually good, dad? _ Zeph had asked, eyes drawn from embarrassment.  _ It looks nothin’ like yours. Mine’s all goopy. _

_ Mine’s not the same colour, _ observed Alfyn, frowning.  _ Mine’s too light. Why’s yours so much bluer?  _

_ Boys, _ Zeph’s father had said, smiling patiently.  _ Of course they’re not gonna be the same as mine. How many d’you think I’ve made, in my life? Hundreds? Thousands? Honestly, it feels like it might be enough I could fill a lake with it, hah.  _

_ So don’t worry about them bein’ goopy or pale or anythin’ like that. These are your very first salves. Your  _ **_first_ ** _. An’ you know what?  _

He had sat down on the opposite side of the table, reaching out and taking their bowls of salve.

_ For your first, these ain’t even half-bad. Zeph, the colour of your salve is spot-on. You added exactly the right amount of graperoot and midnight rose. The consistency’s just because you didn’t add quite enough purifyin’ dust and put in too much water. It’s perfect otherwise.  _

_ And Alfyn... You’ve just got the opposite problem. Your consistency is just right... but you didn’t add enough extracts. But it’s also perfect otherwise. _

_ Now... don’t be so quick to get discouraged, okay? It takes a lotta practice to get to the point where you can make salves n’ concoctions good enough to use on other people, alright? It takes a real long time.  _

_ But I know you can do it. This is just your first salve. If you did this good on your first... Well, who knows? This old man’s got the feelin’ that both’ve you will become better apothecaries than I ever was. _

Even then, even after all of those years of practice, Alfyn wasn’t sure if he had managed to eclipse his medicinal skill, despite all he’s learned. 

But, at the very least, his salve was much better now than it was then, and it was serving him well. 

The fight had left, aside from the gash in his arm and the hole in his back, several smaller scrapes and slices along his arms and torso. Those he covered with salve, aside from the remnants of the stab wound. He could reach it, but he couldn’t see it, and he needed a second opinion.

“Hey buddy?” Alfyn asked, and Therion made a small noise of acknowledgement. “Sorry to ask this of ya, but would ya mind maybe takin’ a quick look at that stab wound? Like I said, I think Ophilia got most of it, but...” 

Therion got it. He gave a small shrug and mumbled out a “ _ sure _ ”, circling around to look at his back. 

The sharp sound of Therion snapping his fingers startled him, but he realized that it was to create a flame with which to see it better. 

“How’s it look?” Alfyn asked. “Shouldn’t be too deep now.” 

“... It’s not,” replied Therion, quietly. “Just looks like a normal cut.”

“Doesn’t feel like it is, but is it bleedin’ at all?” 

“No.”

“Perfect, thank you.” 

Alfyn was satisfied, but Therion didn’t seem to be. He lingered there for a while longer, silent, and Alfyn felt goosebumps prickle at the back of his neck. It wasn’t  _ unpleasant _ , necessarily, but it was a little unnerving all the same. What was he doing back there? 

“... You didn’t put any salve on it,” observed Therion, on the verge of scolding him, and Alfyn chuckled.  _So you're worried._

“Ah, no, not yet. I was just about to, to tell you the truth. First I just wanted for ya to take a look at it to make sure it wasn’t, like, doin’ anything weird.” 

“Hm,” came Therion’s reply, and Alfyn realized that the pot of salve was gone. When did he take that...?

The bed dipped under his slight weight as Therion sat behind him, and Alfyn swallowed, heart beating louder. 

“... Since I’m already here,” Therion muttered, unscrewing the jar. 

“Y-yeah! Yeah, yeah, go right ahead,” Alfyn said, perhaps a touch too loud, and he swore that, even though he couldn’t see him, that Therion had rolled his eyes. 

But, even though he had given him permission, there was a moment of hesitation from Therion, as if he was nervous about something. 

Finally, eventually, Therion let out a very small breath.

“... Can... I... um... can I touch you?” he asked, and while the context wasn't  _ incredibly _ pleasant, the words still sent a wave of heat through Alfyn's face, and he nodded. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Go ahead.”

Therion’s hands were surprisingly cold. One rested very lightly over his skin, fingertips only, as if gently keeping him in place, and the other carefully spread the salve over his wound. 

And, with a start just as powerful as a blow to the head, Alfyn realized that, aside from batting his hands away, this was the very first time that Therion had touched him.

His head went staticy from the realization, from the weight of this event, the significance, and Therion covered all of the wounds he missed in salve, all in silence.

He was right there. Right there, behind him, touching him. 

Alfyn almost felt like he might pass out. 

It didn’t take long, but in some ways, it almost felt like a week had gone by around them, time slipping away like sand through open fingers. Alfyn was on the verge of disappointed when Therion closed the jar and set it aside, standing back up. 

“Thanks, bud,” Alfyn said, and he hoped that the dryness of his mouth didn’t sound obvious. “Now I’ll just need some bandages an—”

Apparently Therion was in a helpful mood, as he returned to Zeph’s bag and found a roll of clean bandages. 

“Heheheh, thanks,” Alfyn replied, as he passed them over. “I wouldn’t’ve guessed you’d make such a good nurse.”

He received a positively trenchant glare in return, and Alfyn only laughed, unrolling a length of bandage.  _ Your bedside manner needs improvement, Nurse Therion. _

As he wrapped the worst of his wounds (excluding the gash on his forearm, as that needed stitches first), Therion continued to rummage through his bag. Alfyn let him. He really didn't mind him looking.

Eventually, Therion found what he was looking for: a small container filled with curved needles and gut thread, a needle driver, thread scissors, and tissue forceps.

Alfyn tied off the last of the bandages, and watched Therion step over to vigorously scrub his hands. He took the bar of soap and meticulously cleaned under his fingernails, between his knuckles, and even up his wrists before drying them off on a clean cloth. Then, he took the suturing kit and made his way over to Alfyn, who tilted his head. 

“Are... are  _ you  _ gonna do it?” he asked, with a touch of doubt in his voice. Not that he didn’t trust him, but....

_ Has he even done this before...? _

Therion shrugged, expression betraying nothing. “Unless you’ve got a third arm I don’t know about.... you can’t do it yourself.” 

It was true, Alfyn knew. Stitching wounds was a two-handed job. With the laceration being on his outer right arm, he didn’t have much of a choice but to let him play doctor for a bit. 

“Well, alright, I trust ya...” he relented, sitting back.  _ Not that I have much of a choice here, but... _

For just a moment, like at the end of the bridge, Therion's expression morphed into something that Alfyn could only describe as deep surprise at him admitting that he trusted. However, it dropped so quickly that, once again, he wondered if he had imagined it.

Now that he had his permission, Therion hooked an ankle around a chair leg and dragged it over so that it was in front of Alfyn. Then, he opened the kit and set it down on the bed. 

Alfyn silently watched him thread the needle. To Therion’s credit, it did, at least, look as if he had done this before. 

“You ever stitched anyone up before?” asked Alfyn, receiving a slight nod. Apparently so.

“Yeah. Not much, though.” 

Alfyn chuckled. “Honestly, I'd be worried if you had.”

Therion was silent. His expression was complicated. Overall, he seemed like he had something on his mind, but couldn’t say it.

“Still, I'm kinda surprised.” Alfyn said, smoothing things along. “It's not a rare skill, or anythin’, but... even so. Not really the most  _ common  _ one, I’d say.” 

“... Guess I'm full of surprises,” replied Therion, checking the length of the thread.

_ You really are full of surprises, you know... _ thought Alfyn, watching him adjust the thread.  _ Not a day goes by where you don't surprise me somehow, and I want to know more about you, if you’ll let me. _

After that, Therion carefully set the threaded needle in the driver and squeezed the handle, making sure it locked into place with a click. His other hand took the forceps. Alfyn got the message and leaned forwards, setting his arm on Therion's knees, wound side up. Their faces were rather close now, and Alfyn swallowed, averting his gaze.

“.... You know this is going to hurt, right?” Therion asked, quietly. It was worded as both a warning for Alfyn to get a numbing agent of some kind, and a subtle admission of guilt. He sounded remorseful.

Alfyn laughed. The sound was much more resigned than confident. “Heh, yeah. The salve helps to numb things a bit, but...” 

Therion, surprisingly, didn't seem overly satisfied. “You don't have anything stronger...?” 

Alfyn sighed and shook his head. “Nope. Fresh out, actually. That’s alright, though, since the Sunlands should have some essence of capsaicin I can pick up. That shit’s real effective.” 

He was half-tempted to go into greater detail of  _ why _ it worked, of how it was actually the active chemical compound found in chili peppers and how, at very diluted concentrations, it actually functioned as an analgesic, rather than an irritant... but he figured that he ought to save it for Cyrus, if anyone. Therion didn’t seem to  _ love _ whenever he veered off into complicated medical terminology. 

Well, Alfyn supposed that he couldn’t really blame him. It was just easy to forget, sometimes, since he obviously never had to worry about this with Zeph. 

Therion hesitated, but eventually nodded, delicately setting the forceps against the inner edge of the wound. “Shouldn't have let that happen, medicine man,” he scolded, without any malice. 

His smile was wry. “Yeah. I know. I'm sorry.” 

Therion made a small  _ hmph _ of acknowledgement, then lined up the tip of the needle with the end of the gash, turning the driver so that the needle was angled downward. 

“... Grab onto my leg if it hurts,” Therion offered. “You ready?” 

Alfyn wasn't, really, but he nodded. “Yeah, let's get it over with.” 

The tip of the needle pierced Alfyn's skin, and he sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. 

“Son of a  _ bitch, _ ” Alfyn swore, holding firmly onto Therion’s knee. This wasn’t the first time he’s had to have stitches, but  _ gods _ , did he ever hate the procedure.

Therion twitched at the sensation, careful not to wiggle the needle more than need be. Alfyn realized that he was probably crushing him, and he gave a pained, apologetic laugh.

“Ggh... H-heh, sorry, am I hurting you?” Alfyn asked, easing his grasp, but Therion shook his head. 

“... Don't worry about me.”

The needle was pulled through the other side (accompanied by another loud curse from Alfyn), and Therion silently rolled the thread around the driver, making three alternating knots. He then cut the thread, resulting in an interrupted suture, and moved the needle up the wound. The salve helped, but there was only so much it could do to numb the pain.

To help ignore just how unpleasant it really was, Alfyn observed his handiwork, analyzing it like Zeph’s father had done to them, once upon a time. He had somewhat expected that he would have to coach him along, but he found that he really had been telling the truth when he said that he'd done it before. True, it wasn't necessarily the  _ best _ suture he'd ever seen, but it worked well enough, and he was proud. 

_ Still, though, I wonder where he learned this? _

The needle pierced his skin once again, and the grip on Therion’s knee tightened. 

Therion gradually created a series of sutures without saying a word. He was normally quiet, but something felt different about this silence, about the intensity of his stare. He didn't seem  _ angry _ , per se, but he definitely wasn't happy by any stretch of the word. It reminded him of when he was a boy and his mother was dragging him away from the deeper parts of the river, biting back tears and scolding words and her fear until they got into the house, a seven-year-old Alfyn kicking his heels in the whole way back and saying  _ But why, Ma, I can swim just fine, I promise _ , unknowing that that was the exact spot where his father had been dragged down by the undertow just five years before. If anything, Therion didn’t seem to be relaxing— Alfyn could see the tension in his body coming back, nearly going back to the point that it was when they were at the cliffside. His visible eye was dark, clouded with emotion, and it worried him. 

Was he just focusing, anxious to get it right? Did he dislike giving others medical treatment? Or... was he bothered by something else, something deeper? 

Finally, Therion cut the final thread and set the tools back into their case, examining the end result. It wasn't the handiwork of a professional by any means, but it fit all the requirements, so Alfyn was satisfied. 

“Heeey, look at that,” he praised, lifting his arm to admire it. “You did a great job. Thanks, Therion. Couldn't’ve done it without ya.” 

Therion didn't respond. His expression grew more complicated, but that was all. 

Alfyn tilted his head, smiling gently. “What's up? Everything okay?” 

Therion's eye sparked with  _ something _ in response, and Alfyn got the vague sensation that he was angry with him. Was Therion's foul mood... because of something  _ he  _ did?

“Are you... worried?” asked Alfyn, still with a confused smile on his lips. Cyrus had thought so, and he wasn't often wrong about things like this. “Shucks, man. Hey, I've been hurt worse. This is nothin’... especially now that you've helped stitch me up, heh.”

He didn't know how, or why, but that was it. Therion’s expression contorted into a snarl and he reached out, grabbing Alfyn firmly by the shoulders and yanking him towards him. Alfyn's awkward smile dropped in an instant, eyes wide from surprise. 

Therion was  _ right  _ there, and while this would normally be a good thing, at that moment, it was nothing short of petrifying.

“No. No, this is  _ not ‘ _ nothing’,” Therion hissed, voice low. 

“Th-Therion...?” 

“You don't get it, do you? You fucking idiot, Alfyn. You  _ idiot _ !”

“Wh—... huh?? What did I...?” 

“You could have _died_!!” 

His fingernails were blunt, but they still dug harshly into his shoulders. Therion was holding him tightly enough for it to sting. Yet, Alfyn couldn't make himself break free from his grasp. His one visible eye pinned him in place like a spear, sharp enough to nail him down on the spot like a frog on a dissection tray, and he swallowed. He wasn't just mad. Therion was  _ livid _ . 

And Alfyn, for once, wasn't sure how to defuse the situation.

“Ah... um, th-the stab wound was bad, sure, but Ophilia got to it in time... Even if she hadn’t right away, it wouldn’t have been... y’know,  _ lethal  _ or anythin’...” he faltered, uncertainly. It wasn't  _that_ deadly, but perhaps Therion didn't know that...? Maybe he was worried because he assumed that it had hit something vital?

However, he shook his head almost violently. “The  _ cliff _ , dumbass, the fucking  _ cliff _ . Do you— do you even  _ know  _ how close you were to the edge? How close that Ratkin was to pushing you off?!” 

So  _ that's _ what was bothering him. Alfyn gave a small, almost timid smile. Truth be told, he hadn’t expected that at all. 

“W-well... sure, I guess it  _ could've _ happened, but...” 

“But _what_?!” Therion roared, digging his nails in harder. “ _ What _ , Alfyn?! What if I wasn't there?! What if I couldn't— I didn't get to you in time?!  _ Gods _ , Alfyn, you  _ fucking idiot. _ As if taking  _ entire fucking hits _ for me wasn't enough...!”

Alfyn had no idea what to say. “H-hey, now—” 

“Shut _up_! Just— just shut up for a godsdamned minute and _listen_ to me! Just because you're a fucking apothecary doesn't mean that you can just do stupid, reckless shit all the time! You aren't _expendable_ , Alfyn. You don't— you don’t _have_ to be a living shield for us!” 

“And what? What should’ve I done instead? Just— just  _ let _ you get hit?!” Alfyn countered, incredulously. 

“Yes! It was  _ my _ fucking fault!  _ I _ dropped my sword!”

Because he made a mistake, he deserved to get hurt? Alfyn shook his head, dispelling his agitation. Why did he think like that?

Therion couldn’t possibly do  _ anything _ severe enough to warrant this kind of punishment.

“Does... does it really  _ matter  _ whose fault it is, Therion?” he asked, a bit sadly. “And just  _ letting _ you get attacked don't sit right with me, okay? Regardless of whether or not you had a weapon.”

His quiet tone seemed to soothe away some of his rage, and the pressure on his shoulders eased. He didn’t let go quite yet, though. 

And, frankly, Alfyn didn’t really want him to.

Therion’s head dropped slightly, eyes unfocused. He seemed to be thinking something over.

Alfyn couldn’t read his mind, but he hoped, deep down inside, that Therion understood what he was trying to say. Regardless of his reasons for wanting to be hurt, for wanting this punishment... he didn’t deserve it.

Why did he default to pain, whenever he made a mistake? 

A small smile crept over Alfyn’s face. He didn’t really know how to help. 

But gods, he wanted to. He wanted to, he  _ wanted  _ to.

“Hey,” Alfyn said, voice soft, and Therion’s head snapped back up, eyes focusing. “I'm sorry for makin’ you worry, Therion. And thanks for tellin’ me that I was bein’ reckless. You’re right. It was stupid of me to just... run in front of ya.”  _Stupid, maybe, but worth it._

He expected, somewhat, for Therion to snarl at him. He awaited the bristling, the aggression he always got in return whenever he tried to be as gentle as Therion deserved to hear. 

Yet, he didn’t. 

Instead, Therion just sighed, letting more tension out. He looked exhausted, Alfyn noted, and it didn’t seem to just be from the walk.

“... You... you don't  _ need _ to be a hero all the time,” Therion murmured, so softly that Alfyn wondered if he had even intended for it to be heard, and he smiled at him in response.

His voice was lovely, he thought, when it was quiet like that.

“Shucks, Therion. I wouldn't call it that,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I think your description was a lil’ more accurate. A reckless idiot.” 

Therion scoffed, but it had lost the bite he had before. “Yeah. You are. Taking an axe _and_ a knife for me was bad enough. Next time... maybe  _ don't _ do that while we're on a mountain, okay?” 

_ He's really fixated on the cliff thing, huh? _ Alfyn was starting to suspect that this wasn't just a sensible concern for his safety.  _ Is this fear of heights— or, maybe not height, **cliffs** — coming from personal experience...?? _

_ Did he...  _ **_see_ ** _ someone fall and die? _

“Okay. I'm sorry. I'll be more careful next time, okay?” he soothed, stopping to crack a smile. “Don't think I've ever seen you so worried ‘bout one of us. Feels kinda nice.” 

“Doesn't feel nice for me,” Therion bit back, releasing his grip on his shoulders. “What use is a dead apothecary to us? Won't do us any fucking good to have you dropping off the edge of a mountain and  _ dying _ .” 

This was a front, Alfyn knew. It was much easier for him to pretend that it was about his usefulness, rather than his presence as a person... as a friend. 

However, something he said was interesting him. T _ he conversation’s gone towards cliffs again. Is this intentional?  _

Intentional or accidental, it was bothering him.

He shouldn't ask. He really, really shouldn't.

But...

“Um, hey, Therion...?” Alfyn asked, tentatively. 

“A-anyways. You're fine, so I'm going back to my room. See you later.” 

With that, he stood up briskly, stiffly, suddenly uncomfortable. Did he know what Alfyn was going to ask? Or did he feel like he had revealed too much? 

“O-okay, that's... that's cool. Thanks again for helpin’ me,” Alfyn replied, a touch of awkwardness in his tone. 

He only got a short noise in response. Not unusual, but he still felt strange, as if he'd somehow pushed too hard.

He probably had, but he couldn’t just leave the thought unsaid. It would bother him all night if not, linger in the back of his head until he got the chance to at least  _ try  _ asking him.

At the very least, he had to give it a shot.

“Hey, Therion?” he said, as his friend reached for the door. 

“... What?” 

His fingertips hovered over the doorknob, waiting. He didn't turn around, however.

_ He’ll probably get mad. But I’ve gotta try. Or else I might not be able to help him better with these things. _

“Um... Is it just me, or... do you have a fear of cliffs  _ specifically _ ?” 

Even from the distance he was sitting, Alfyn could see Therion’s body still further, freezing completely where he stood.  _ Gotcha. _

“Did you.... um... did you see someone fall from one.... or...?” he prodded, knowing full well that he was likely pushing his luck, but he couldn’t help it.

There was a long bout of silence. For a moment, Alfyn thought that Therion wouldn't answer at all, and would just leave the question hanging, like he often did. 

However, this time, he didn't. 

“... I... was the one who fell. So yes... you could say that.”

With that, he slipped out into the hall, leaving a bewildered, horrified Alfyn alone in his room, and closed the door. The sound from the door shutting behind him was louder than usual. 

With that, he was alone for the night.

On the bed, Alfyn sighed. He had finally received an answer, but it didn't really feel like an honest victory. 

Though it felt bad, he tucked the information away for later, placing it on top of the little pile of things he  _ did  _ know about Therion. It was small, but it was still something precious, considering just how much time and effort it had taken to learn some of these things in the first place.

What he knew wasn’t much. He knew that his name really was Therion, and it wasn’t just an alias. He knew that he was 22 years old, and had been a thief for most of his life. He liked coffee with sugar and cream, apples, and fruity meads... sweets in general, now that Alfyn thought of it. His tongue was sharp, mind sharper, and he was easily the fastest out of them all, seemingly ambidextrous, and he had an incredible talent for throwing knives.

There was a scar over his eye, but he seemed able to see from it regardless, as if it were a botched attempt to blind him. He was adamant that he liked to work alone better than with a group. He got antsy whenever people acted too warmly towards him. He had trust issues. Something seemed to hurt within him whenever someone mentioned their own betrayals, as if it reminded him of something he’d rather soon forget. He recoiled from sudden touches, wriggled his way out of arms wrapped around shoulders, averted eye contact, and woke up in cold sweats, jolting himself awake as if he had tripped in a dream.

And, now he knew that Therion has fallen off of a cliff. 

... Something didn’t add up.

He examined the sutures, slowly turning his forearm as he did. While imperfect, they were a  _ hell _ of a lot better than most people could manage. 

_ Just what kind of past do you have, Therion...? _

He looked back up, back at the space that he had left. The door offered no answers. 


	15. Chestnuts, Roses, Thorns, and Daggers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you THANK YOU guys SO SO SO much for your patience as always... this chapter took a LOT more time than I expected, mainly because of one Million things happening all at once in my life and i just.... haven't had time to really do much of anything, let alone write....   
> I love you guys, and hope you guys enjoy!!

_ Breathe, damn you. _

“H... haahhh.....”

_ Shitty. That was so shitty. Do better next time. _

He’d do better. He’d do better.

“Ah... hha-ahhh...” 

No. That was worse. He was doing worse.

_ Stop. Just fucking stop.  _

“Gghh.... nngh...” 

Liquid dripped down his face. Whether it was snot, tears, or sweat remained to be seen. Could have been drool, even. Could have been all of the above. He didn't have the mental capacity to find out. Didn’t have the energy, either.

_ Stop, damn you. Fucking  _ **_stop_ ** _ already. _

It hurt. He wanted to stop. Gods knew that he  _wanted_ to stop.

He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t stop.

_ You’re such a fucking embarrassment. Have you seriously forgotten how to breathe? Literally the easiest thing you can do? _

It should have been  _ easy _ .

“Hhh... ghh...”

Why wasn’t it easy?

_ Just breathe normally. Fucking idiot. What the fuck is wrong with you? _

He didn’t know.

_ Be normal, damn it. _

What the fuck  _ was _ wrong with him...?

_ Are you fucking crying?? Are you seriously fucking crying right now?? _

He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t fucking  _ crying _ . 

_ Therion, you pathetic, worthless piece of garbage, stop fucking **crying** about this. Stop fucking crying. He’s fine, so stop it. He’s fucking  _ **_fine,_ ** _ so stop  _ **_crying_ ** _ about it, for fuck’s sake. _

He was fine. He was  _ fine _ . He made  _ sure  _ that he was fine. 

“Ahh..... ghhh... haa-aah....” 

So why did he care? Why did he still  _ care  _ about this?

_ Sentimental piece of shit. It’s not like you still fucking care so why even bother?  _

_ Why? Why are you having a fucking panic attack about this? _

He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t  _ know. _

It didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter, didn't matter. He was fine. He was  _fine._

So why couldn't he breathe? 

_ Why can't I just fucking  _ **_breathe_ ** _?? _

On the ground, in front of the toilet, Therion cried. He cried, and wheezed, and couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t  _ breathe _ . He saw nothing, saw nothing of the bathroom, saw none of the remnants of his last meal in the water, smelt none of the bile in his nose. He only recalled the edge of the cliff at his side, the tiny spires of pine trees below, the writhing of the Ratkin as they lay dying from their wounds. Wind over the peaks. Blood rushing through his ears. His old partner’s laugh echoing loud in his memory, wild, cruel and mocking, sadistic, filled with  _ hate _ —

“Mmhh... haaahh...”

Perhaps more prominently than that, he remembered Alfyn shielding him with his own body, Alfyn fighting even as he was wounded, Alfyn’s panic as he realized that Therion was too close to the edge, that he would get hurt, that he might fall. 

And, most powerfully of all, he recalled the knife being plunged into Alfyn's back, his scream, his own scream, the blood dripping from the blade, the axe falling to the ground, Alfyn being dragged closer to the cliff, closer to the cliff, closer to the cliff, closer to the cliff, closer, closer, closer, closer,  _ closer— _

“Hhhh.... hhaaaa-aahh.... f- _ fuck _ ...”

He could have fallen. He could have fallen. He could have fallen, could have fallen, could have fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,  _ fallen _ — 

_ I... was the one who fell. _

Why did he say that? Why the  _ fuck _ did he say that??

More tears dribbled down his cheeks.

_ He knows. He knows.  _

He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows, he  _ knows, he fucking knows, he fucking knows, he fucking knows, he fucking  _ _knows_ _ , **he knows, he knows, he knows, he knows.** _

_ Alfyn knows.  _

_ Alfyn fucking knows.  _

_ Alfyn fucking  _ **_knows_ ** _....! _

“Mmm.... ggghhh....”

_ Please. Please. Please help me. Help me. Help me. Help me. Help me. Please help me. Please. Please help. Help me. Help me, help me, help me, help me, help me, help me. _

_ Please. _

_ Please. _

_ I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe. _

He didn’t tell him why, didn’t tell him  _ what _ made him fall in the first place, but he fell regardless, and Alfyn knew, Alfyn knew, Alfyn knew, Alfyn  _ knew _ . 

He knew that he fell, but didn’t know why. And he couldn't find out why. He couldn't. He couldn't find out. He couldn't.

_ I can't tell him that. I can't tell him about  **him.** _

“Aaahhh— ghhh... haahh....” 

And, most importantly, _Alfyn_ _ could have fallen too. _

Therion couldn’t breathe. 

He threw up again.

 

* * *

 

While they were in Stonegard, H'aanit came across a direwolf, and with the help of the wolf, she located her master. 

Normally, this might have been fantastic news, but it only created more questions than answers. For one, nobody was certain whether or not he was truly dead— his body had been petrified into solid stone. Much of them supposed that he ought to be, since being reduced to stone seemed to be a fatal condition, but Cyrus disagreed, saying that if it were a curse, it  _ ought  _ to be reversible. Secondly, however, nobody knew for sure if it was  _ actually  _ possible to reverse such an affliction. Neither Alfyn nor Cyrus could think of any component that could reverse the effects of petrification, even after consulting Alfyn’s encyclopedia. Thirdly, a letter had been left, wrapped around an arrow buried into a tree, written by a hasty, careful hand. H’aanit instantly recognized the fletching and the handwriting of her master, and they deduced that he had managed to write it before the effects of petrification took hold of him (meaning that the effect wasn't instantaneous). It told her of a seer who resided in Stilsnow, named Susanna, and that was therefore where H'aanit needed to go next. 

And, it only really occurred to Therion, as Cyrus went off to talk to some people involved with his runaway library book (or whatever the fuck it was he was looking for), that he didn't even question him thinking about the cold of the Frostlands, about how the trip there would be this time, about how he had simply accepted that he'd be going with them.   

But, after everything that had happened, he didn't want to think too hard about it. He didn't have the strength to think. Not then, anyways, so soon after—

_ Don't think about it. _

So, he didn't. He followed them through the city without seriously considering running away, without wondering if he could melt away into the dawn by the time they woke and found his empty bed, and that was remarkable— with his room, with how they were all isolated, he  _ could _ have.

Were it earlier in their travels, back around Noblecourt or earlier, after the panacea was no longer needed and before all of the recent  _ complications _ , he would have. 

Maybe. Probably.

Regardless, at the end of the day, he was still there, and he was still there even as they woke up in the morning, even as they ate breakfast together (and nearly got chased from the inn after Linde stole an entire table’s worth of sausage links, trotting off with them as H’aanit scolded her), even as they gathered their things and set off, and he didn’t miss the way Alfyn looked at him as they found themselves on the path again, finding the same uneasy concern that he had received after his impulses won out and he had  _ told him _ — 

_ Don’t fucking think about it, _ he thought, shaking the thoughts from his mind.  _ Don’t think about your stupid fucking decisions, dumbass. _

Whatever. What did it matter, anyways, whether or not Alfyn knew?

He thought that over and over, despite knowing that it actually mattered a  _ whole hell of a lot _ , since if Alfyn knew  _ that  _ much, then what  _ else  _ would he let slip? What else would he tell him, when he was overcome with emotion or backed into a corner, when they lay in their beds staring up at the ceiling, when he tried his damnedest to pretend that his efforts to befriend him hadn’t worked in the slightest (because they  _ did, _ somehow, and while Therion would never call him his  _ friend _ , he wasn’t exactly a stranger anymore)?

What else would Alfyn  _ know _ about him, by the time they got back to Ravus Manor, by the time they set off in search of the second dragonstone, by the time he finally got this stupid fucking  _ bangle _ off of his wrist? What else would he be able to deduce from the meager little scraps he threw him in pity, or all the tiny details that slid from his grasp, all of which were obvious enough that he could discern shreds of secrets lurking within, piecing them together into a larger image? 

Therion almost wanted to scoff at the thought. He was a book with all the pages ripped out, torn into bits, and he had never assumed that anybody would ever bother to  _ try _ to open him up, let alone sift through the scattered mess of paper, delicately piece him back together as they travelled. 

Yet, Alfyn seemed perfectly happy to do so, and he didn’t understand it. What was there to  _ gain  _ from this...?

Therion didn’t say much of anything as they travelled, unpleasantly mindful of the cliff at his left again, and he forced himself to be more aware of the sensation of his right hand skimming over the rocks, reminding him that he wasn’t at the edge, that he was  _ fine _ .

Maybe Alfyn knew that he wasn’t  _ perfectly  _ fine, thanks to what he’d said, but that wasn’t a big deal. At the end of the day, even though he  _ had _ fallen ( _ you wish that you  _ **_only_ ** _ fucking slipped and  **fell** , though _ ), he was fine  _ enough _ . 

The fact that he had a dream about the fall again last night was only a coincidence, and wasn’t unusual, really. It just  _ happened _ sometimes, as dreams tend to do. 

_ You know, because you’re too much of a fucking baby to just let it go, but whatever. Now you just have to deal with it. _

And he’d deal with it. He dealt with everything that happened to him because he had to. 

He had to.

_ Because you don’t have a choice.  _

He didn’t have a choice but to deal with it, and he didn’t have a choice right then but to keep walking as if nothing was wrong, as if he was perfectly fine, because he  _ was _ , and if he felt scared of a little cliff that wasn’t even  _ right  _ next to him, then that was his also his own fault, wasn’t it? 

Because even though he didn’t  _ do it _ , he was  _ pushed _ ( _ even after everything I did for him?? Even after everything I let him  _ **_do_ ** _ to me?? _ ), enough time had passed that it shouldn’t have still  _ bothered _ him. 

Six years had passed, after all, and six years was a long time.

Why did it still make him feel this way?

Green appeared in the corner of his eye and he gasped, fingers tightening around the rocks. 

Alfyn held up a hand, smiling sheepishly. 

“Hey,” he said, conversational but cautious all the same, and Therion felt his cheeks burn hot from embarrassment. “You okay?” 

Therion cast a quick glance ahead. The other seemed too engrossed in their other conversations or observing the scenery to eavesdrop, but he still didn’t really want to tell Alfyn all about something as silly as his  _ feelings _ , let alone while they were passing through the very kind of place that made him most nervous. 

So he just shrugged, pretended that the nausea inside of him wasn’t really there, that the vague sense of unease wasn’t suffocating him (because it  _ wasn’t _ ), and kept on walking, kept moving his feet, because if he stopped, if he quit moving...

In places like this, it always felt as if the ghost was there, walking just behind him, trailing along in his shadow. If Therion turned to look, he’d disappear. But, if he stopped walking for too long, if he stopped and thought too hard about it, stopped and let him grab him—

Something touched his shoulder. Therion whirled around in response, unseeing, heart pounding, hand extended. An arm was there, hand on his shoulder, and there was green. 

Green, green,  _ green—  _

And Therion, without even thinking, slapped his hand away  _ hard _ . 

Alfyn whimpered from the sting of the hit, retracting his arm, and it left such a hideously bitter taste in his mouth that Therion felt a swell of panic within him, heart clenching at the sight. 

He didn’t  _ mean _ to. 

“I...” he started to say, throat closing off partway through, and he couldn’t finish it. The others were looking back at him now, curious, confused, some glaring from what he’d just done, and he shrank back, bunching up underneath his shawl. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t  _ mean it _ .

“It’s— n-no, it’s okay,” Alfyn said, though it sounded as if it was directed less at him and more towards everyone else. Therion shuddered. He wasn’t looking, but it felt like everyone was staring at him. They probably were. “It’s... it’s okay. I startled you. So I'm sorry. You okay?”  

For whatever reason, even though  _ he _ had hit Alfyn (and therefore deserved to be hit back, at the very least), Alfyn still asked him if _he_ was doing okay, still tried to help him, still tried to be kind, and it hurt, somehow. 

He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of his sweetness. 

“I... I’m...” Therion tried to say, tripping over the words, because Alfyn was still holding his stinging hand, still looking at him with all the warmth and care he always set aside for him, and his mouth dried, useless tongue unable to form anything beyond that. His heart was still fluttering wildly beneath his chest, blood tearing through his throat and his temples and leaving him dizzy, every muscle in his body tensed for a hit, for punishment, for  _ something _ . 

He was scared, but Alfyn didn’t do anything beyond gazing at him, looking for all the world as if he’d love nothing more than to keep on apologizing, to keep on trying to  _ help _ instead of harm, and he didn’t understand it.

It didn’t make sense. Why did Alfyn keep on  _ doing _ this for him?

Alfyn seemed to clue in that he couldn’t really say, or maybe wasn’t in the mental state to talk, so he didn’t press him further. However, he didn’t quite leave him be afterwards, lingering on his left, and Therion wasn’t sure what to think of it. Even though he had been cruel to him, impulsive, aggressive, he still wanted to stay near him? 

Why?

It distracted him to the point of nearly forgetting where they were, almost rendering him unable to remember that there was, indeed, a cliff nearby. Though he had told himself a thousand times over that morning to  _ not _ think about it, even though he’d had it on his mind ever since the incident itself, ever since he’d staggered back to his room and collapsed in the bathroom and had a panic attack alone, vomiting until there was nothing left... it still came back to haunt him. He still remembered the dreadful sound of a hatchet glancing off of the bones in Alfyn’s arm, his screams of agony, his fearful whine when he got closer to the edge, and it was  _ all for his sake _ .

What did that  _ mean? _

It felt unfair, Therion decided. He had known it deep down inside for a while now, chewing on the thought at night when he wasn’t trapped in a dream, stuck in the memory of being in midair, or else on the cliff above, bleeding, crying, asking him over and over  _ why _ , why he’d  _ do this to him after all that he’s done for him _ —

_ We've talked about this, idiot. Don’t think about that, either. _

Regardless, though, the fact remained that Alfyn kept doing this for him, and it felt unfair. Perhaps not necessarily  _ always _ running directly in the path of monsters for the sole purpose of taking hits for him, but he always went out of his way to help him or to protect him, even at the risk of his own convenience or safety, and that left Therion feeling very strange. Really, even right from the beginning, Alfyn had always gone above and beyond to try to help him, even without knowing whether or not he could gain anything from him. 

He didn’t  _ need _ to help him, after all. Even when he had overheard the bandits laughing about him in the tavern and stolen his weapons back from them, went looking for him without even knowing if he’d still be alive, found him and treated him despite there being a chance that the panacea would fail on someone as close to death as he was... he still  _ tried  _ to help. He gained nothing from it, and yet he still tried. He tried, he succeeded, and Therion was alive again.

Alfyn revived him, and what he got in return was having to be joined at the hip to the most sour, unpleasant bastard of a man the poor hick’s probably ever had to deal with in his life, moody and quiet and mean, self-centered, sarcastic, and Therion didn’t really know how to feel about that. Alfyn healed him despite his attitude, treated him for free without  _ ever _ trying to hint at wanting sympathy payments (or else simply using his strength or the shadier of his concoctions to  _ take _ whatever he wanted from Therion, whatever that might have been), or even ever being as rude to him as Therion deserved. 

Alfyn was never once  _ rude  _ to him, really. 

Despite Therion having done nothing at all for him, Alfyn was still always right there to help when the panacea’s effects wore off, always dropped a few paces back to try and talk with him as they travelled (even if Therion pretended that he wasn't there, turned his head away to look at the world slowly passing by), always collected the bits and pieces of sentences that he carelessly tossed aside as if they were stars shaped by the gods themselves, was always the first to ask him if he was  _ okay. _ He was the first to run to his aid when he was blinded and the gryphon had grabbed him, was the first to drop to his knees by his shattered body and soothe away the dregs of his panic attack, was the first to carry him when he passed out on the way to Flamesgrace, was the first to check back up on him after they left to give him space. 

Alfyn was always the first to  _ be _ there, at the very least, and it sat heavily with him. 

And, most recently, he was the first one to shield him from a hit, and that wasn’t all; This was the first time that  _ anyone _ had protected him from an attack of any kind. 

_ He _ hadn’t even done anything like this.

And for what? What had Therion done for Alfyn to warrant this?

After some thought, Therion supposed that he'd done a  _ little _ for him— he had snuck leaves into his purse and repaid him. He had given him money for helping, for doing all that he's done. That felt as if it were enough, for the most part (because how  _ could _ he compete with someone who helped others out of his kindness alone, without a known ulterior motive?).

He had given him money, and, with that, they were even. And now, with what Alfyn had done, it had upset that balance once again.

Part of it annoyed him, since now he had to make  _ this _ up to him, as well. 

The other part of it scared him, and that was because he didn't know  _ how _ .

What could someone like Therion ever do for someone like  _ him _ ? 

It shouldn’t have bothered him at all, but it did, for reasons that Therion was starting to see but was unable to grasp. He could  _ see _ that he felt guilty about it, that this felt unfair to him, but he couldn’t quite understand why he ought to, really. 

Alfyn, after all,  _ chose _ to do these things. Alfyn  _ chose _ to heal him, to defend him, to carry him, to help him drink, to brew tea for him, to listen to him, to buy lunch for him.

He also chose to cry about Therion’s feelings after he had insulted him, chose to willingly take blows for him, chose to softly ask him, voice heavy with fear, with pain, if he could please tell him before he ran away, so he wouldn't worry about him for the rest of his life. 

He would worry, too. Therion was starting to see that Alfyn would always wonder how he was feeling, no matter what he did or where he went, no matter what kind of terms he left him on.

The thought sat so strangely within him that he could only focus on that, for a while, turning it over and over as if doing so would reveal some kind of secret to him, some kind of revelation he wasn't aware of.

Truth be told, he didn't even know why he was thinking so hard about it.    

It didn’t matter, at the end of the day ( _ But it does _ ). 

It would never really  _ matter _ , in the end ( _ But it does _ ). 

By the time he got the bangle off of his wrist, he’d stop thinking about it for good, and he’d be gone, and they’d never see him again ( _ Will I? _ ).

The thought shouldn’t have been a lonely one.

“Ah,” Alfyn breathed, beside him, and Therion’s focus returned all at once, finding the sun higher above them than before and the end of the road ahead, a solitary bridge awaiting them. His heart sunk at the sight.

_ Fucking bridges. _

Yet again, his mood soured exponentially, realizing that he’d have to suffer through the mortification of yet  _ another _ bridge that no-one  _ else _ seemed to have trouble with  _ because they’re not fucking pathetic like y—  _

Oh. Therion remembered that there was, in fact, one other person who was scared of the bridges. 

He looked over at Alfyn, who was staring ahead of them, watching the others approach the bridge. He seemed to be worried about the situation overall. That made sense— he had asked him to help him across the last one. Truth be told, Therion hadn’t really been expecting that, but his explanation was fair; the Riverlands weren’t especially high up, altitude-wise. There were some bridges, of course, but they were all rather low, for the most part. Aside from that one that they had gone over the other day, that very well could have been the highest bridge he’d ever crossed (save, perhaps, for the couple of others that were in the Cliftlands, assuming he’d passed through Bolderfall before getting to where Therion lay dying). 

So... it probably wouldn’t be _too_ strange if he needed that help again. 

H’aanit and Linde crossed the bridge first, with Ophilia behind. Cyrus, this time, was not reading as he walked, but he remained seemingly unaware of the bridge regardless as he talked with Olberic, attention fixated on his words and little else of the world. 

Tressa went after that, and Therion, without really meaning to, stopped. His hand had left the rocks, and he felt shaky standing there, untethered. This always happened when he got too close to a bridge and too far from the safety of the stone.

_ Don’t. Focus on Alfyn instead.  _

It took a moment, but he did. He tore his gaze away from the bridge and looked up at him. Alfyn saw the motion and looked back at him, head tilted, awaiting whatever Therion had to say.

Therion took in a small breath, sighed it out. Part of him still wanted to apologize, but the words refused to form. Saying sorry meant acknowledging that he’s fucked up, and while he was aware that he  _ had _ , going out of his way to say it unprompted would only tell Alfyn that, not only did he care enough about his actions to recognize when he’s done something wrong, but that he cared enough about Alfyn’s feelings to want to remedy this.

He didn’t hate him. He really didn’t hate him at all. 

But they weren’t friends. 

_ You know what happens when thieves get too close to people, after all. _

So, instead of an apology, he tried something else.

“D-do you... um...” 

_ Too quiet _ . He cleared his throat a bit and tried again, a little louder.

“Do you.... need... me to...” Therion tried to say, each word stilted and unwieldy, unnatural, and he hoped that Alfyn didn’t realize that he was afraid, too. “Y-you know...”

He did a vague, loose gesture between them, hoping that that would spell out everything that he couldn’t say.

Thankfully, he didn’t need to explain further— Alfyn’s expression cleared from understanding, eyes wide, and he looked so touched and relieved both that it almost hurt to look at, hurt to acknowledge. Alfyn had been tense since he'd hit him, and so had he. How did he keep doing this to him? How did he keep Alfyn in this state, anxiously waiting on his fickle moods to soften, mirroring his emotions? 

Why did he care enough to hate it?

The image of Alfyn standing in front of him, arms crossed protectively, shielding his body from harm without a word... refused to leave him. 

So when Alfyn gave him a tiny smile, warm and thankful and genuine, Therion himself almost felt a bit better, somehow. 

“You wanna help me again?” Alfyn, thankfully, asked the question for him, and Therion couldn’t help but to break eye contact, nodding into his scarf. Look at him go. He had tried so damn hard to convince all of them that he was a selfish asshole, and now here he was, offering to help. 

Though, even as he thought that, he knew that he really wasn’t trying all that hard anyways— even back in the beginning, he’d go out of his way to light fires and candles for them ( _ “Better than watching you struggle with matches for the next thirty seconds.” _ ), or kept an eye out for monsters and bandits on the road as their focus drifted into conversations ( _ “Why wouldn’t I? This benefits me too, obviously,” _ ), or even, at the very least, wasn’t  _ completely  _ miserable and unapproachable overall. He could very well have been colder, ruder, harsher with them. 

Perhaps he should have been.

“.... It’s either that or... leaving you behind,” Therion said, but it backfired tremendously— the light in Alfyn’s eyes flickered a bit, dampened from hurt.

“... You wouldn’t do that, would ya?” Alfyn asked, easygoing but still a touch uncomfortable, and Therion cursed internally at the effect it had on him. Regret tasted terrible, and saying that he’d leave him behind, even without  _ really  _ meaning it, had left him with a mouthful of it, bitter, acerbic, leaden. 

He had tried to leave him behind, once, and where did that leave him? Pitifully searching for an excuse, no matter how vague or how slight, to take him back to Goldshore, to let him fall back asleep in his bed, to allow him to keep pretending that this strange new way of life could carry on, somehow, for just a little bit longer.

He would never go so far as to say that he  _ liked _ being around them, because he  _ didn’t _ . But, being around them forced him to focus on things that were different from his own trudging footsteps, from the lingering aches and pains in his bones, from his nightmares and intrusive thoughts and the endless cycles of bad memories that refused to leave him be whenever it was quiet for too long, and he couldn’t really say that he _didn’t_ appreciate that.

Though he didn’t want to get close, he supposed that he could thank them for  _ that _ , at the very least. 

One day, anyways, if he were brave enough.

“... You wouldn’t let me,” Therion replied, eventually, and the lack of bitterness, the absence of resentment seemed to soothe Alfyn, as if he could hear something Therion that hadn’t said, and his smile became soft again. 

“... Yeah,” he agreed, unusually quiet for someone so brash. “That’s right. Besides... right now I need your help, right? I’m real grateful that you’d offer.”

“I— it’s... um. N-not a big deal.”

Maybe it was, to Alfyn, since he only smiled gently, cheeks pink, eyes glittering. He looked normal once again, and to Therion, it felt like a small weight had lifted, as if some of the guilt sitting in his chest had dissipated. 

Therion didn’t really understand it, but he didn’t want to think about it for too long— The others were waiting, and he hated the thought of them realizing that the only reason they ever stopped before a bridge was because he was too  _ scared _ to cross it with the rest of them. 

They could think that Alfyn was scared, if they wanted, because he’d probably admit it, if they asked. 

_ Me, though... I can’t  _ **_tell_ ** _ them that I’m afraid.  _

Telling people about your fears was a sign of trust, and if Therion could trust these people (or, at the very least, just Alfyn), then what did that mean? 

He’d promised himself that he’d never trust anyone again, after all. Not after him. Not after _that_.

“... Either way,” Alfyn said, and his voice was kind. “It’s nice of ya. I’m grateful.”

And he was, if the gentle smile on his lips was any indication. Therion felt his face warm, ducked a bit into his scarf, but forced himself to stand firm. He was already scared of one thing. He didn’t need for Alfyn to think that he was scared of him too (even though he still was, in a lot of ways, and he didn’t know if that would ever really change).

“Mhm. W-whatever. Let’s just go.” 

Alfyn, thankfully, seemed to clue in that he wasn’t wanting to drag this out for much longer. He shot him one last smile, presenting his bag to him as he turned away, and Therion reached forwards and took the strap in his hand. There. Now Alfyn would be satisfied, and he wouldn’t piss himself if the wind picked up. Maybe. Hopefully. 

_ You’d better not make a fucking fool of yourself, alright? _

“You ready?” Alfyn asked, glancing back over his shoulder, and Therion almost scoffed.  _ No.  _

“... Yeah. Let’s go.” 

“Alright.” 

With that, Alfyn stepped onto the bridge, hands resting lightly over the ropes. Behind him, Therion bit his cheek and followed, holding firmly to the strap of his bag with one hand and the rope in the other. Gods, but he hated this. He hated this, hated this,  _ hated _ this. 

_ Hey, Aeber, you’d better not fucking let me down here, too. _

Blood rushed through his ears. He swallowed as the bridge jostled beneath their feet, trying as hard as possible to avoid looking down. He couldn't look down on a bridge. He couldn’t. He couldn’t look down. 

_ Take a step. _

If he looked down, he’d see the ground.

_ Other foot. _

If he saw the ground, he’d panic.

_ Another step. _

And if he panicked, Alfyn would see him panicking. 

_ Other foot. Keep walking. _

And if Alfyn saw him panicking, he’d know the truth.

_ No, he won’t. Idiot. Focus on walking.  _

Okay, so he wouldn’t know the whole truth. He’d know that he was a bigger pussy than he thought, sure, but he wouldn’t  _ know _ . 

_ He never will. He’ll never find out.  _

_ So just keep fucking walking. _

He walked. Alfyn carried on ahead of him, essentially pulling him along, and Therion was fine with that. If it got him across the bridge, then he was fine with it. 

He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine, fine, fine, fine,  _ fine—  _

Therion’s toes caught on a loose board, and he stumbled.

He didn’t go far, thankfully, as Alfyn was right there, but he still bumped into him, still glanced down instinctively, and he tried to look back up before he saw the bottom, saw the ravine, saw how high up they were, saw craggy cliffs and spires of trees and a thin stripe of a river below, below, below—   

A swell of vertigo overcame him, world spinning around his head, and his fist tightened reflexively around the strap, steps faltering.  _ Gods help me. _

In front of him, Alfyn paused, as if waiting to see if he was okay. Though Therion felt something like sitting down and waiting for his head to collect itself, he stuffed it all back down regardless, shoved his fear back inside of him, told himself to save it for later, after they were across the bridge and on solid ground again. He could cry like a fucking baby about it afterwards, if he got away from the others for a bit. 

Retch up his dinner like a dog, crawl into his bedroll soaked with sweat, sticky with tears, fall asleep only to wake up from a nightmare.

Again.

Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and— 

"You alright?" asked Alfyn, concerned, and Therion had to force himself to keep calm, to keep his voice level, to give a simple " _yeah_ " as if he wasn't about to puke.

_ I'm not going to be sick. I'm going to be  _ **_fine._ ** _ Because I  _ **_am_ ** _ fine.  _

He was fine. Therion took in a shuddering breath, held it, released it.  _ Gods.  _

“We’re almost halfway,” Alfyn said, and Therion desperately hoped that he wasn’t saying it to soothe him or anything. He might have been, after all— Therion had been impulsive enough to  _ tell him _ that he was afraid of cliffs (more or less, anyways, because why would he  _ not _ be after falling from one?) so it would only be natural that Alfyn would deduce that he disliked the bridges, as well. 

_ Please don’t say anything about it. Please don’t try to make this worse. _

"... Okay," Therion replied, and his voice sounded wrong, pinched, squeezed ( _ not fine, definitely not fine _ ) and he hated it. 

_ Gods, Therion, what the fuck is  _ **_wrong_ ** _ with you? _

Alfyn didn't wait for long, mercifully, and started walking ahead of him once again. Part of him cursed it, hated that he had to keep moving, and part of him almost wanted to beg for him to walk faster, please, get this over with, please, he was scared, he was scared, he was scared, he was scared, scared, scared, scared—

_ Shut up! Just shut the fuck up already!! _

He couldn’t be scared here. Not there, not there, not there.

_ Grow up. Keep fucking walking. _

His skin prickled all over. He wanted to rip it off.

_ Keep going. _

His mouth tasted raw. He realized that he was biting his cheek firmly enough to bleed.

Step, step, step. The ropes creaked. He tried not to pay attention. Thinking about that would make him panic more. Thinking about the height would make him panic more. Thinking about the open air beneath their feet would make him panic more. He couldn’t panic _more_. He couldn’t. Not here, not with Alfyn right there, not with the others waiting on the other side.

_ Don't think about it. Don't think about any of it. _

Step. 

Step.

Step.

He thought about it. He thought about it all. 

But, he made it. A violent shudder ripped through his core as his foot made contact with the other side, and he just barely restrained himself from letting out a sigh of relief. Finally. He was finally done. 

He was done, and he wanted to sink his nails into his skin until he bled. 

As he usually did after crossing a bridge, he looked back at it. 

And, like every time, like every single  _fucking_ time before this, the bridge _wasn’t that long_.

The others had gone ahead a little, still in sight but out of earshot, and Therion hoped, begged,  _ pleaded _ with the uncaring gods above that they wouldn’t have noticed anything about his pallor, about his shaking hands, about his  _ weakness _ .

“Hey,” Alfyn said, still held in place by Therion's hand, and Therion felt his pulse quiver. His tone was different. Gentle, kind, questioning, wondering... suspicious? Was he suspicious? Did Therion act strangely? Was it obvious that he was scared? 

Did Alfyn  _ know _ ?

“You... you kinda stumbled there,” Alfyn continued, and Therion could  _ definitely _ hear the uncertainty, the question hidden beneath his words. It made his brain itch, made his skin crawl. “An’ I was just worried about—”

Oh, so he was worried that he was scared. 

He panicked. He pulled hard on the strap of his bag, forcing him to turn around. Alfyn’s soft brown eyes came into focus, confused and startled and worried, and Therion wanted to be angry. He wanted to tell him to mind his own fucking business. He wanted to tell him to leave him the fuck alone, because so  _ what _ if he was scared, because even if he  _ was _ , it didn’t affect him, and he shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have paused for a second in the middle of the bridge, asking if he was okay, because it didn't _matter to him_. 

... Was he okay?

“Th-Therion...?” ventured Alfyn, and Therion saw the anxiety creeping over him, saw his own reflection in his eyes, small and drawn into himself, crumpled like paper. 

He wasn’t okay. 

“Hey, Alfyn, Therion!” called Tressa, waving, and Therion jumped, releasing Alfyn’s bag. “C’moooon, hurry up!”

“D-don’t tell them,” Therion said, and it came out as less of a request than a plead. “Don’t— don’t tell them. Please.” 

And, as the words hung in the air, as the wind blew at their clothes and made the bridge creak in the background, Alfyn looked, for just a moment, a bit confused. 

Therion then wondered, in a moment of cold, sickening clarity, that there was a chance that he had simply imagined that Alfyn knew.

Did he? 

He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell anymore.

“Hey, I won’t, okay?” replied Alfyn, and his voice was exceptionally soft, delicate like he were dressing a wound. 

Dressing wounds still stung though, sometimes.

“I won’t,” he continued. “So let’s get goin’, okay? We’ve still got a while to go.” 

He smiled, gestured for him to come along, and Therion gave a small, tight nod, stepping just behind him. He didn’t want to face the others. Not then. Not after that. 

_ What the actual fuck is  _ **_wrong_ ** _ with you, Therion? _

He didn’t know. He wished that he knew.

He wanted to cry, but held it in. He’s done enough of that to last for the rest of his life, hopefully. 

Or, at least until he was alone again, and he hated it. He hated that this felt like it was becoming common again. He hated that he now had to worry about other people seeing it. He hated that the fall happened in the first place, that he couldn’t seem to get over it, that he wasn’t good enough for him to want to keep him around—

He hated himself the most, and, for a moment, he wished that he had died after the fall.

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that.

_ Sure as shit won’t be the last time, too. _

 

* * *

 

It took all of an hour within the borders for Therion to decide that he completely and utterly loathed the Sunlands.

Heat shimmered over the horizon. His scarf had been unwound long ago, draped and wrapped around his head and the back of his neck, and his shawl had long been unclasped and shoved in with the rest of his things. Even so, despite having shed those layers, he still felt itchy from the heat, sweat starting to seep into his clothing. It could certainly get hot in the Cliftlands, especially in the summer, but it was still nothing quite like  _ this _ . 

_ Is this or the boat better....? _ he sulked, trudging along the sandy path.  _ Because now that I’ve experienced this sunbaked shithole of a region, I think I’ll take the fucking boat next time around. _

And, considering how horrid of an experience  _ that _ was, Therion supposed that that really summed up his opinions of the Sunlands. Hot. Sandy. Sweaty. Boring as  _ fuck _ . 

_ Fuck my horrible, awful, shitty godsdamned life. _

He shot a glance over at Linde, who seemed every bit as miserable as he was. Surely she was more than a little unhappy about this arrangement, as well, right? The desert was no place at all for a _snow_ leopard, after all.

_ Well, what about you, Linde? Would you also prefer the boat over this...? _

H'aanit also seemed aware of Linde's discomfort, and sympathised.

“Oh, Linde,” she sighed, sounding apologetic. “Thou wilt surviven, but without joy for a time. I giveth thee mine apologies.” 

Linde huffed out a tired sound. Perhaps she, too, might prefer the boat. 

_ At least then we get a fucking breeze, _ thought Therion, sighing.  _ Whatever wind we’re gonna get here is going to be hot as shit. _

Water. He uncapped his water canteen and took in a swallow, cursing at the sickly warmth of it. Not even the water was refreshing.

Hell. He was in hell. 

Ahead of them all, Alfyn walked on, and Therion’s gaze locked onto him, scrutinising. Something was wrong with the picture here. He moved at his usual long-legged pace, seemingly undeterred by the heat, mantle still draped over his shoulders and vest still buttoned in place. He was wearing entirely too many layers for the desert, in Therion’s mind, and therefore he ought to have been slumped over the sand and dying of heatstroke, or something equally sweaty and unpleasant, if not at least peeling off some clothes.

He should have been, but... he wasn't. Rather, he was just walking and whistling an old Riverlands tune Therion vaguely remembered floating out from behind tavern doors as if he were just taking a stroll down through Clearbrook, and he seemed fine. Despite his attempts to seem aloof, Therion would be the first to admit here that his curiosity was killing him. To him, if  _ he _ was about to pass out from the heat, there was no way in the seven hells that  _ Alfyn  _ would somehow tolerate the desert sun any better. 

Yet, he was, and Therion had to know why.

“H... how are you  _surviving..._?” Therion complained, mopping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What the fuck, Alfyn.” 

Alfyn just giggled.

He glared and took a look around him at the rest of them. Alfyn was apparently okay, and otherwise, Tressa was alright as she was, more or less. Ophilia had taken her gloves off, hood draped over her head to protect her scalp from the sun. Olberic’s armour had also been removed, along with H’aanit’s furs. Linde stuck to the shade on the edges of the dunes and the lone shrubs dotting the path.

Otherwise, interestingly enough, there was Cyrus, trailing a little behind everyone and reading as he walked. He, too, with all of his layers, ought to have been on the verge of fainting. However, to Therion’s bewilderment, he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves up. His socks remained on his legs, his cravat stayed at his throat, and his vest was still securely buttoned up, greatcoat fluttering behind him as he walked. Surely  _ he _ , at the very least, would be on the verge of collapsing like that, if not at least a bit sweaty, right?

But, despite the heat, he looked just as impeccable as he always did, just as perfect, and Therion actually felt a bit irate at the sight. His unwavering, seemingly-untarnishable elegance was infuriating enough as is, but  _ this _ ? How did he do _that_??

"There's no fucking way that _you're_ not even a  little too warm," complained Therion, towards Cyrus. 

Cyrus looked up then, tilting his head as if Therion had just made the most bizarre complaint. "... Hmm? No, I daresay that I'm rather comfortable. Why, Therion, are you feeling rather warm?"

"Wh— Huh??" he said, dumbly, unable to articulate anything more than that. What fucking realm was Cyrus in? 

Alfyn was looking back at them and giggling a bit more. Therion couldn’t fathom what for.

Apparently he wouldn’t be able to extract information from Cyrus, as he had since gone back to his book. This would imply normally that Therion was being unreasonable, but he couldn't see it. They were, in fact, still in the desert, and it was probably still about thirty degrees out, at least, and he was starting to get a bit annoyed.

_ Whatever. _ He turned his attention towards Alfyn instead, happily walking a little in front of him, undeterred. Cyrus, he'd give up on. Cyrus was just kind of a special case to begin with, in Therion's eyes. Alfyn, however, was more or less  _normal_ , if so bizarrely friendly that Therion had to wonder if one of his ancestors happened to be a golden retriever.

“Seriously, how the _fuck_ are you still alive?” groused Therion. _Is it a secret tonic? Is Clearbrook just unnaturally hot? This makes no fucking sense, and you know it._

Alfyn, for once, didn’t answer verbally. He just glanced back and motioned for him to come closer, smiling conspiratorially. Therion had no idea what  _ that _ look meant, but he did. Whatever. Perhaps Alfyn had some bizarre concoction that would lower his body temperature, or something. 

What he found, though, was that upon getting nearer to him, that the air around him seemed somewhat cooler than the rest of the desert winds. This, of course, made absolutely no sense to Therion, considering how Alfyn was very much beneath the same sun, in the same area— it wasn’t as if there was any shade he was walking through. 

Alfyn must have seen the puzzled frown on his face, because he just giggled, reached out as if he was going to give something to Therion. Naturally, Therion opened his palm and held his hand out, expecting for Alfyn to drop something there, but he simply pressed his fingers into Therion’s skin. They were  _ freezing _ , and Therion gasped, pulling his hand away. 

“Wh—” he started, then remembered: Alfyn could use ice-based magic. The bastard was cooling himself and the air around him, and therefore keeping himself comfortable in the heat.

“Ice magic’s pretty handy, huh?” quipped Alfyn, smiling playfully, and Therion rolled his eyes. Okay, fine. Apparently it was for more than just making water for tea and for icing wounds (or attacking, though he had yet to see Alfyn himself use it in combat). 

Still, though, the fact that Alfyn’s hands, which were normally so warm, had become frigid was strange in a different sort of way. Therion was good with his fire magic, sure, but he could only control it to a point— he wasn’t skilled enough to warm himself with it much beyond a ball of flame in his hand. Cyrus, unsurprisingly, seemed capable— aside from melting the snow with it on their trek to the Frostlands, he had also been warming himself with it, all to the point where he hadn’t ever needed to  _ actually  _ wear his coat like a coat, no matter how cold it got. 

This realization solved the other question on Therion’s mind. Cyrus was also capable of using ice magic. Therefore, he was likely doing the same thing as Alfyn was (perhaps even subconsciously, which would explain the bewilderment he felt upon Therion questioning it), and so the sweltering sands of the desert didn’t even faze him.

Therion snorted.  _ Lucky fucker. _

Truth be told, though, he hadn’t honestly expected this level of ability from Alfyn. Cyrus, yes. Magic was the man's specialty, after all. Regulating his temperature via magic was probably second nature to him.

Alfyn, though... he didn't really anticipate that _Alfyn_ would be capable.

He watched him for a moment without realising it, thinking. He'd thought that he had figured out enough about Alfyn to understand him. As good of an apothecary he was, he was still, in Therion's eyes, a backwoodsy, grass-chewing bumpkin that had too soft of a heart and too weak a backbone to survive long in this merciless world. Therion had accepted that he was smart. Smarter than he seemed, anyways. At the end of the day, there probably weren’t too many stupid apothecaries out there.

He was a bleeding heart, though, to the point where it wasn’t really a benefit for him.

And this wasn’t even just Therion being harsh— their recent misadventure in the Caves of Azure was indicator enough to him. Hells, not even  _ just _ Therion.  _ Both  _ of them knew that, had Therion not been amongst the crowd, then they likely would have left town the next day without knowing that Flynn was dying, that everyone that Vanessa had treated was slowly suffocating, and they would have never been saved. If Therion had never come along with him into the caves themselves, then Alfyn likely would have ended his journey there. His body would have been dragged out later, either by a townsperson or one of the travelers (or even Therion himself, choking on guilt for leaving him to die like this) and then buried.

Buried, gone, and he'd never come back.

The thought bothered him for reasons he didn't understand. But, this was all too complicated for him to think about while sweating out his body weight, so he decided not to. Instead, he focused on easier things to grasp, such as the air near Alfyn being cooler, and how it was actually rather pleasant. Next to Alfyn, he didn’t really feel as if he would pass out from the heat, so Therion didn’t feel the need to leave so soon. 

Though, of course, that then meant that he had to deal with Alfyn  _ looking _ at him every so often, and trying to talk to him, and Therion wasn’t sure if he had the strength for it. The thoughts in his head hadn’t really lessened, after all, though they were slower from the heat, sluggish, distilled into syrup.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to feel.

“... You just tired?” asked Alfyn, softly enough so that the other travelers wouldn’t hear, and Therion’s mind was pulled back into focus. They seemed to be a fair bit further along than he recalled, sun in a different place, and Therion almost felt embarrassed— Alfyn hasn’t been trying to talk to him this entire time, has he? 

“O-oh. Uh... y-yeah,” Therion replied, awkwardly. He supposed that it wasn’t wrong— he was tired, both physically and mentally. He hadn't slept well at all last night, after the whole bridge fiasco.

_ Don't you dare start thinking about that again. _

“Aw, yeah, okay...” sighed Alfyn, sympathetically. “Yeah, I don’t blame ya. It’s hot as fuck out, hey?” 

It was. Therion nodded. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I don’t think I’m, like, a  _ huge _ fan of the desert so far,” admitted Alfyn, laughing, and Therion nodded again. “I mean, I’m sure there’s some real nice things here too, but... Man, I dunno. I’m really not used to this.” 

Therion supposed that he was a little more used to it than Alfyn would be, since the Cliftlands were probably, technically speaking, a different kind of desert. It was arid enough there to be one, at least, though it lacked sand. Just bare, windswept rock and cracked earth. 

_ I fucking hate that place. _

“I love the Riverlands, y’know?” Alfyn mused, and Therion felt something complex, something nostalgic, at his memories of Saintsbridge, of somewhere even before that. “But growin’ up in the Riverlands just made me spoiled, I think, heheh. Like, it’s just so beautiful there. Makes it so everywhere else kinda feels wrong somehow.”

“And the desert isn’t beautiful,” said Therion, and Alfyn barked out a laugh.

“Well! I mean, it’s pretty in its _own_ way, sure. There’s definitely nothin’ quite like it that I’ve ever seen. If we kinda... I dunno, ignore the fact that there’s not much else to look at, the dunes are real nice.”

As he said that, he illustrated the flowing curve of the top of a dune with his fingers. Therion supposed that, with the stark contrast of the cloudless blue sky over the golden sands on the horizon, it almost did look as if they were walking in a painting. 

_ An unfinished painting, perhaps, since the artist forgot the, oh, I dunno, the trees and the grass and the water and everything else to make this place anything other than a sand-filled garbage dump, but whatever. _

Time passed, and the slog continued. 

As the afternoon bled into evening, the travelers decided to stop for the time being and find somewhere to settle down. None of them had any particular desire to set up camp in the open sand, so a search for shelter of some sort began. Thankfully, they got lucky— H'aanit's sharp eyes spotted something that looked somewhat like a building in the distance, partially buried by a sand dune. Cyrus informed everyone that they would likely be ruins left over from the first settlers of the region, or perhaps even the remnants of a church from long ago, left to the whims of nature for unknown reasons. Olberic sensibly pointed out that there could be monsters in there, if not other people, and that they had best be on their guard. 

Therion, well, he didn’t particularly care about anything aside from the fact that they would finally get to sit in some shade.

He wasn’t stupid, though— he did keep his hand over his dagger as they climbed the steps and entered the ruins, checking for other inhabitants. Luck was on their side, however, as it was perfectly empty, save for wisps of sand and general debris. They set about cleaning the floor, which was made much faster thanks to an unexpected surprise— Tressa apparently had some ability in using wind-based magic. Therion thought it to be an incredibly useless kind of magic overall. Maybe mildly convenient, as she demonstrated then, but he couldn’t think of any other possible uses for it. Stoking a fire? Drying laundry faster? Cooling off hot food? Pathetic. 

The bulk of the ruins were mostly inaccessible, either from fallen debris or from sandbanks, leaving only the large front room available to them. It was more than enough for them to all set up their bedrolls, however, and Therion picked a nice, secure corner for his. Alfyn, predictably, set up his place next to him. Therion couldn’t even pretend to be irritated that he did, for once, what with how cool the air around him was. 

And, once they had finished setting up, Alfyn spoke to him. 

“Hey, Therion. Come outside with me for a sec.”

_ Why the fuck would you want to go back  _ **_outside_ ** _...? _ Therion stared at him as if he’d just confessed to murdering sixteen people, and Alfyn giggled. 

“I know, I know. We’ve been walkin’ all day in the desert and we finally find some shade.... and I’m tryin’ to go back out in the sun. I get it.”

“So... why do you  _ want _ to, though?” 

Alfyn only gave an enigmatic smile, motioning for him to come along. “Well, why don’t ya come see for yourself?” 

Therion had no idea where this sudden playful attitude had come from, but shrugged. Fine, whatever. He supposed that there was nothing saying that he  _ had _ to, but the cold air followed Alfyn as he left, so Therion supposed that he didn't have much of a choice, if he wanted to stay cool. They descended the steps again and walked out into the sand. 

They didn't go far. Alfyn had had his sights set on the only green things nearby, and Therion couldn't even find it in him to be surprised that an apothecary would make a beeline for the only plant-like things in the entire region. He still didn't understand why he had wanted him to join him for this, but he supposed that he'd receive an explanation soon enough.

They came up to it, and Therion observed. They had passed by a few of them while walking, and they had only seemed to grow more plentiful as they travelled, with some of them clustered in groups. Alfyn stood near it, hands on hips, and Therion crossed his arms. He didn't know what it was. He'd never seen anything like it before.  

“What the actual fuck  _ is  _ this?” asked Therion, scowling at it. It appeared to be a plant, he supposed, as it was green, but it had no leaves of any sort ( _ not unless these weird flat parts are leaves...? _ ). What it did have, however, was thorns, though they were far longer than any spines he's ever seen on a plant. On top of each flat part, there were several purplish-red growths, also adorned with spines. Overall, it looked mean. He was overcome with a strange urge to touch the spines, but resisted. 

“This weird-lookin’ thing is a type of cactus,” explained Alfyn. “It's a sort of plant that you’d usually only see in real dry places, like the desert. I know there's a couple've tiny cacti in the Cliftlands, an’ so I'm sure you've seen ‘em, but those ones tend to stay that size... and they’re little round ones. These are a different species.” 

Now that Therion thought of it, he did recall some spiny plant-like things that grew on the lower parts of the Cliftlands. They weren't the same shape as these ones, and the spines were different, but he'd hazard a guess and say that they were probably what Alfyn was referring to.

“What do you...  _ do _ with them?” 

Alfyn smiled, pulling a leather glove onto his right hand. He then dug out a pair of forceps from his bag, clicking them in the air as he spoke. “Weeell, there’s a coupla things you can do with ‘em. For one, cacti can hold a lotta water in ‘em. If you’re dyin’ of dehydration, then some cacti have juice that’s safe to drink.”

Therion, though he wasn’t a botanist by any means, supposed that that made sense. There wasn’t much water to be had in the desert, after all. Surely whatever plants that were stupid enough to have wound up in this horrible landscape would need to adapt to the dryness of the region to survive. 

“Otherwise, some others have hallucinogenic compounds in ‘em,” Alfyn continued, conversationally. 

Therion gave him something halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. He hadn’t expected that. “Really?”

Alfyn nodded. “Uh-huh. Some cacti actually produce mescaline. Wouldn’t recommend ya try and get some yourself, though, without knowin’ which ones to look for. And no, I’m not tellin’ you which ones.”

_ Gee, thanks. _

“And, surprisingly, you can usually eat these cacti,” Alfyn concluded, gesturing towards it. Therion’s utter disbelief at that must have showed on his face, because Alfyn laughed, long and loud and hearty.

“You can, I promise,” he replied, still giggling. “Obviously you’d wanna get rid of the spines, but I’m bein’ serious. Zeph’s dad told me that sometimes people in the Sunlands’ll cut ‘em up and cook ‘em into dishes. They taste like string beans, so if you’re a fan of those, then you’ll probably like cacti. But most people are more interested in these guys.”

As he said that, he used the forceps to carefully pluck one of the many fruits growing along the top edge of the cactus. It was a vibrant contrast to the green body of the cactus, with dark fuschia skin and small spikes protruding from its rind.  

“This mean-looking bastard fruit is a prickly pear,” explained Alfyn, letting Therion get a good look at it. He supposed, at a glance, that the name was fairly apt. “They’re pretty important to the people of the desert, both as food and for medicinal uses. Their juice will help in reducin’ inflammation, and for soothin’ away burns. Otherwise, I’ve heard they can help with ulcers, among other things.” 

As he said that, he held it towards Therion.

“Don’t touch it,” he warned, upon seeing Therion move. “Not yet, anyways. Though they don’t look as bad as the spines, those tiny hair-like things on ‘em will make your day a lot more miserable if you get ‘em in your skin. So, I’ve actually got a lil’ favour to ask of ya.” 

“... And... what might that be?” 

“Burn it,” Alfyn said, without missing a beat, and Therion blinked. 

“You... want me to set it on fire...?” he wondered, and Alfyn laughed. Apparently he was kidding. 

“Well, sorta. The easiest way to make sure that  _ all _ of those awful little hairs on it are gone is to burn ‘em off. So, all I need you to do is to make a small flame. I'll hold it over the fire an’ make sure they're all gone.”

Well, Therion had no particular desire to make something  _ hot  _ whilst in this sweltering hellscape, but he figured that Alfyn would find a way to do this regardless of whether or not he complied. So, whatever. He snapped his fingers, sparking a flame that bloomed from the center of his palm.

Alfyn hummed out a song as he held the fruit over the fire, letting the hairs catch and burn away. There were some popping sounds as they burned, and Therion watched him turn it over, taking care to get the top and bottom of the fruit, as well. As he did this, Alfyn wore the same vague smile he often had on his lips, although now it looked somewhat as if he had maybe been looking forward to this.  

Even the little things in life were good things, to him. Therion didn't really understand it.

“Alright, we should be in the clear here,” said Alfyn, examining the fruit. It was a bit charred on the outside now, but that didn't seem to be a problem. “So let's get my knife...” 

He dug his pocketknife out from his bag and flipped it open. Therion watched him carefully cut the top and the bottom of the fruit off. He then took the tip of the blade and scored a vertical line down the middle before peeling the skin right off, leaving a vibrant purplish flesh behind. It got juice all over his hand, but he didn't seem terribly bothered by it. Therion expected him to eat it.

Then, he split it in half. 

“Okay, so you can’t chew the seeds,” warned Alfyn, passing him half of the fruit. "They're like rocks. Way too tough to chew. You can swallow 'em, though. They're not poisonous."

Therion hesitantly took the offered fruit, examining it. 

_ A prickly pear... was it? _

The overall shape of the fruit was vaguely pear-like, so Therion decided that the _pear_ part of its name wasn't as strange as it initially seemed. The middle was filled with seeds suspended in a pulpy, almost mushy substance, but the outer flesh felt... well, something like a pear, Therion supposed. The juice was dark like wine. He briefly wondered if it would stain his skin. 

“Zeph’s dad used to bring ‘em back for us sometimes,” Alfyn explained, his half of the fruit held about an inch from his mouth. “Since he sometimes used to travel to the Sunlands an' the Coastlands for some medicinal components we can't get back home.”

Alfyn then took a bite out of his half, trying as hard as possible to avoid making a mess. 

“Ooh,  _ fuck _ , this one’s  _ good _ ,” Alfyn enthused, mouth full, and Therion rolled his eyes.  _ Dumbass. _

But, well, now that Alfyn had tried it (and therefore displayed that it was safe to eat), Therion’s curiosity got the better of him. He carefully bit into it, feeling rivulets of juice dribble down his fingers. 

And  _ gods, _ was it good. 

The closest thing he could really compare the flavour to was a mixture between a kiwi and a watermelon, sweet and light and blessedly refreshing after their Sunlands slog. 

The seeds, however...

Therion grunted angrily as he accidentally bit into one, feeling the uncomfortable resistance in his teeth, and Alfyn nodded sympathetically. 

“Mm, yeah, those seeds sure suck, huh?” he sighed. “Not much worse than missing one and crackin’ your tooth on it.”

_ I’ll fucking say... _ thought Therion, moodily spitting it into the sand.  _ Fuck you, you stupid little seed. _

“So yeah, like I said, you can swallow ‘em, but a lotta people just spit ‘em out, like watermelon seeds,” continued Alfyn, looking at the spot where Therion had spat his. “Like you just did, heheh.” 

Alfyn then turned his head and spat his seeds. They all landed in a scattered pile on the ground, juice staining the sand pink. Therion was briefly impressed that his bumbling oaf of a companion didn’t manage to get any of it on his clothes.

They finished off their fruits, and Therion thought, for a moment, about asking Alfyn to pick more for him. But, it seemed that Alfyn blessedly had the same idea— he pulled his water pot from his bag, holding it out. 

“Hey, sorry to be a bother, but would ya mind holdin’ this for a sec?” asked Alfyn, and Therion sighed, taking it. Why not.

“... Sure.” 

The smile he got in return wasn’t huge, but it was genuine nonetheless, warm and gentle and every bit as delighted as it would have been if Therion had offered to carry it in the first place, and he didn’t understand it. No matter how often it happened, how often he thought of it, he didn’t understand it. 

Why was he  _ like _ this?

Therion watched Alfyn pick the rest of the ripe fruits from the cactus, depositing them all in the pot with a delicate touch. 

“When they’re this ripe, they can get beat up pretty easy if you’re too rough with ‘em,” he explained, stepping over to another nearby cactus. Therion followed. “So we’ve gotta be nice to ‘em.” 

“Even though they’ve got spikes all over them?” he replied, as dry as the sands beneath their feet, and Alfyn smiled at him. 

“Well, yeah. Of course. Lotsa good things have less friendly exteriors guarding ‘em.” 

“... Like what?” wondered Therion, and Alfyn looked back at the task at hand, plucking a fruit from the new cactus. 

“Well, these guys, obviously. Geodes are another— y’know, crystals hidden inside rocks? Honey, when it's still in a beehive.... Oh, bread. But, like, bread that’s burnt on the outside but still good on the inside.” 

Therion scoffed and rolled his eyes. He was ridiculous. 

“Oh, and how could I forget  _ chestnuts _ ?” Alfyn added with a wink, and Therion huffed into his scarf, scowling.  _ Of course he hasn’t forgotten about Nut Boy... _

He let Therion sulk about it for a moment longer, harvesting fruits all the while. 

“... What I’m sayin’ is just that yeah, sometimes things that try an’ hurt you are worth the time and effort to try and work with anyways, y’know?” said Alfyn, in that same gentle tone he always used when he was talking about something somewhat personal. “I mean, roses are pretty nasty to deal with sometimes. They’ve got thorns on ‘em. But if we... I dunno, valued their ease to handle over the benefits of gettin' to look at a beautiful rosebush in your garden, then nobody would bother to have ‘em. Blackberries, too, or anythin’ else that’s covered in spines.”

He placed another prickly pear on the pile. In the last rays of the sunlight, Therion could see the little hairs protruding from its surface. It, too, counted in what Alfyn was saying. It was a hassle to eat, what with all the thorns and spines and defenses it had, but if people only focused on convenience, then nobody would get to taste them.

"It's the same with people," continued Alfyn. “One of the big things we learn as apothecaries is that... sometimes people that are real stressed, or in a lot of pain... lash out, or try an’ fight us if we help, or whatever. Zeph n’ I have been attacked by delirious n’ confused patients, or else just yelled or snapped at, and even though it sucks, especially since we usually know the person actin’ like this.... we’ve been taught to overlook that, for the most part. Y’know, since yeah, even though some people  _ are _ just rude for the hell of it...”

Another fruit went into the pot.

“... Most people... aren’t. Even if it’s not from a physical injury, or... I mean, even if it  _ was _ , pain can stick around for a lot longer than people wanna think. And that can make a lotta people pretty spiny on the outside. I mean, people don’t usually  _ like  _ gettin’ hurt. Because of that... we protect ourselves. Lotsa people push other people away because of it. And I get it.”

_ Do you... get it? _ Therion wanted to ask, but didn’t know how, didn’t know why. What would it achieve?

What would Alfyn  _ learn _ about him?

The last fruit from that cactus was harvested. At a glance, Therion figured that there was roughly enough for each of them to have three. 

“Maybe it’s kinda silly for me to wanna say this,” Alfyn said, smiling differently, and Therion wasn’t sure what kind of emotion it contained, exactly. “But... I’ve never really been able to say it to anyone who doesn’t already know, or... whatever, y’know? Like, Zeph knows this. Buncha people in Clearbrook know.” 

“... And... what’s that?” asked Therion. 

Alfyn’s smile fell, but didn’t disappear completely. He looked determined in the gentlest way possible, as if he’s resolved himself to something a long time ago, and he would see it through, regardless of what tried to stop him. 

Regardless of what Therion thought.

“Well, it’s that I’ll never give up on a patient.”

He said it, and while he wasn’t staring directly at Therion for the entirety of what he said, he did for just a second. His eyes crossed over him, locked onto his gaze for a moment, and it felt something like a hand on his shoulder, warm and startling but not entirely unpleasant, on the verge of  _ familiar _ somehow. 

Alfyn never gave up on him, once. Not when he was inches from death, not when he was rude to him, not when he forced him to sleep on the floor or when he lay in agony in the forest, a lost cause, easier to let waste away if he wasn’t torn apart by the wolves first. On the way to Flamesgrace, he didn’t give up on him. After their argument in Goldshore, he didn’t give up on him. Even after Therion tried to throw that all out by running away, Alfyn didn’t give up. His heart was shattered, sure, but he didn’t hate him. He wasn’t angry with him. 

He still introduced him to Ellen as his friend. He still cried over hurting his feelings. He still shielded him from that Ratking. 

And, even most recently, when Therion had slapped him and offered no apology, he still received his kindness, in the form of prickly pear juice staining his fingertips. 

He didn’t understand it.

“... Never?” asked Therion, unsure what the purpose of his question was, and Alfyn nodded. 

“Yeah, never. An’ that’s a promise I’ll swear over my Ma’s grave.” 

_ You’ll really never decide that anyone’s a lost cause, huh...? _

He could believe it, since this was  _ Alfyn _ , but he also couldn’t, since he was a person, and people didn’t  _ do that _ . People weren’t that kind. People weren’t that caring. People weren’t that determined.

Not if they couldn’t gain anything. Not if they couldn’t benefit somehow. 

“Alright, now let’s bring these back to everyone,” declared Alfyn, taking the pot from Therion. “Thanks for holdin’ this, by the way.” 

Alfyn moved to take the pot from him, and Therion allowed it. For just a moment, their fingers brushed together. Therion convinced himself that the shiver that travelled through his core was due to the coolness of his skin, and nothing more.

They returned to the ruins. The others perked up from the sight of Alfyn with the pot of fruits on his arm, intrigued at the novelty of them. Therion supposed that few of them would know what they were, if any.

“Have I got a treat for you!” exclaimed Alfyn, with Therion rolling his eyes behind him. “Check this shit out!” 

He set the fruits out over the ground, and everyone looked down at them, intrigued. 

“Don’t touch ‘em,” he warned, gently slapping the back of a curious hand. Cyrus stammered out an apology, retracting his hand. “Prickly pears ain’t called that for fun.” 

He then launched into a similar spiel to what he'd done earlier, talking about the various properties and benefits of the fruits, if perhaps a touch more technical this time around for Cyrus’s enjoyment. And, once Cyrus heard that Therion had helped to burn the spines off of them, he eagerly offered up his (stronger) magic to speed up the process. Therion supposed that that was alright, since the prickly pears were tastier than he had anticipated, and being able to eat more of them faster suited him just fine, honestly.

Once they were charred and spine-free, Alfyn showed the others how to open them up, revealing the fruit within. This turned into everyone with a knife or a knife-like implement taking a pear and attempting to mimic Alfyn’s motions, with everyone lacking a knife (or a knife-like implement) waiting patiently for someone to help. Therion took one and made short work of it with his dagger, peeling the skin off in a rough motion. Juice seeped out and soaked into his hands, and it became apparent that Alfyn, who made the least amount of mess by  _ far _ , made this look significantly easier than it really was. The skin came off easily. That in itself wasn’t a problem. But the actual fruit was fairly soft, and oozed juice like overripe raspberries. Therion had somewhat expected that Alfyn, what with his big hands and clumsy appearance, would look like a kid who’d run amok through a blackberry field, soaked in juice and teeth stained red. Yet, he remained relatively unsoiled, happily biting pieces out of his fruit, and Therion was reminded once again that he had underestimated him.

It was rather stupid of him to do so, he thought— Alfyn was an apothecary. He had stitched him up before, right upon their first meeting, and his stitches were, unsurprisingly, much better than anything Therion could produce. Therion had also watched him prepare herbs, carefully dragging out slivers of Noxroot with his pocketknife as if it were second nature, and he realized that, while he seemed to be, Alfyn wasn’t really clumsy in the slightest. 

The occasional root or rock he tripped over were different, at least. 

“Wow, Alfyn, these are  _ so _ good!” enthused Tressa, fingers and lips stained pink. “How’d you know about these? I’ve never heard of them!” 

“Ah, but one of Alfyn’s specialties is the flora of the continent, however,” Cyrus reminded her, idly examining one of the prickly pears. “I daresay that, out of us all, he is the most likely to recognize what’s edible and what is not.” 

“I like to think I’ve got a good handle on everything, yeah,” replied Alfyn, preparing one for Ophilia. “I mean, no one’s died yet from me mixin’ up plants, so I’ll say I’m not too shabby, heheh.” 

He passed the peeled fruit to Ophilia, who thanked him and accepted it. 

“Still, though, this is a pleasant surprise," said Ophilia, turning it carefully in her fingers. She seemed to be trying to avoid getting her dress stained. “Admittedly, I didn’t think that there was much of anything _green_ to be found in the desert.” 

“Honestly, plants are some a the most stubborn things in the world, second only to people,” laughed Alfyn, carefully peeling another one. “Doesn’t really matter where you go— Frostlands, Cliftlands, Sunlands, wherever... you’ll find plants an’ people both, for some reason.”

“The world of plants art wider and more complex than humankind knoweth of,” mused H’aanit, idly holding out a pear to Linde. She sniffed it, then huffed, tail twitching. Apparently it wasn’t appetizing to her. “Plant-life weren rooted in soil long afore humankind hath ever trodden over this earth.” 

“Indeed,” agreed Cyrus. Olberic had offered to prepare a fruit for him, and Cyrus seemed to be on the verge of fainting from excitement. “The various members of the plant family have long preceded our time in this world, and likely will persist long after the very last human has passed on.”

“... It’s a sad thought,” sighed Ophilia. “Though I daresay that it sounds about right.” 

Ah, philosophy. Therion wasn’t terribly fond of it. Thieves, as a general rule, were both unpleasantly familiar with it and incredibly averse to it; familiar because it was all that they could do sometimes, laying on their meager bedrolls and staring blankly up at the stars, ruminating on their purpose in the world. 

Averse because they would always remember that, in the end, they would most likely die of starvation, broke and alone with nobody to miss them. Thieves and rats and strays were all the same. When most people died, people mourned. People lamented their loss and made space for their body, even if it was as small as reducing them to ashes and keeping them in a jar, or else digging a hole big enough for body and casket and laying them to rest, leaving a stone at their head to remind the world of who slept beneath their feet. 

Thieves never got such a luxury. Their bodies were considered nuisances, pitiful husks of pitiful beings, forlorn and empty and cumbersome to drag off and throw in a bonfire with the garbage and the bodies of the other unfortunates, the lower-class and vagrants and undesirables who, even after death, all melded together in the minds of the rest of society. Their ashes would mix together and wash away in the rain, scraps of charred bone left to crumble into dust. 

It was a truth that was long-known to thieves of all sorts. However, the fact that the general poor and the sick were usually lumped into this category struck a sadder, more personal note in Therion, and he decided that he didn’t much feel like thinking about it for longer. He took a few more fruits and stood up, bringing them over to the front stairs. 

And, a minute or so later, Alfyn sat down on the steps with him.

“Heya,” he greeted, and Therion gave a nod in reply. He wouldn’t be rude. Alfyn cooled the air down. 

Seconds later, another person plunked down next to Alfyn. Surprisingly, it was Tressa. 

“Hey, I dunno if anyone else has noticed,” she said, leaning in as if she had a wonderful secret to share. “But I don’t feel like I’m gonna sweat out my body weight when I’m around Cyrus and you, Alfyn.” 

“Heheheh, uh oh, looks like other people are startin’ to clue in,” replied Alfyn, winking towards Therion. He had absolutely no clue what  _ that _ implied.

“Ahhhh!” commented Tressa, stretching dramatically. “Yeah, this is  _ way _ better. Warm, but not too warm. It’s like early spring over here.” 

Alfyn grinned. “Good! I love spring... not just ‘cause of all the plants an’ whatnot for me to stock up on, but it’s just a real nice season overall. Weather’s warmin’ up, birds are singin’... all the tulips would start bloomin’ in Ma’s planter boxes. Good season.” 

“What would’ja rate it?” she asked, playfully, and Alfyn thought for a moment. 

“Mm, accordin’ to my expert analysis, I’m gonna give it a solid 9/10.” 

_ Generous.  _ Therion supposed that springtime in the Riverlands would really warrant a rating that high, to a degree. It did rain a lot, however. There were a good many rainy days in Saintsbridge spent ducking beneath awnings and eaves, or else squatting in attics or beneath a tree, watching the droplets send ripples through the puddles. Because it was cold, because he got wet and often had no shelter to hide in, he couldn't say that he  _loved_ the rain.

It wasn't all bad, though. At least, for a while, he wasn't alone, and had the company of his old partner, even on those miserable rainy days.

At the time, the thought had comforted him. Now, it just made him feel sick.

_ Don't think about him. _

He took his dagger and opened another fruit to distract himself, but it was hard to do so. Though those old memories were nostalgic, in a way... they still left him with such an incredible unease that he almost wanted to throw up. 

He wasn't always kind, necessarily, but he wasn't  _ only _ cruel.

_ What's it matter? He still tried to kill you. _

It still hurt to think about, so he forced himself not to. Instead, he took a bite from the peeled fruit, focusing on that instead. Alfyn and Tressa went back to eating as well, spitting out the seeds as if they were all sharing a watermelon. Therion, therefore, did too.

The three of them sat on the stairs of the ruins and spat seeds together for a time, sharing a pleasant silence. The lower steps were littered with them soon enough.

"Hey," Alfyn eventually said, smirking. "Bet neither a you guys can hit that rock down there." 

His voice held a playful challenge in it, and Tressa scoffed. 

"Yeah, you're on! I bet I can hit that  _ easy _ !" 

Therion doubted that anyone could. It had to have been about thirty feet away, at least. 

"... You sound confident," said Therion, and she nodded proudly.

"My dad always says that a good merchant is confident in what she does, because if she doesn't believe in herself, then nobody'll ever buy her wares, right?" she replied, grinning. "And besides... I don't think Alfyn would, like, purposefully pick a target that's  _ impossible _ to hit. He's too nice for _that_." 

_ I dunno... _ Therion had seen how mischievous Alfyn could get. Out of all of them, he might actually be the  _ most  _ likely to trick Tressa into spitting seeds all over herself. 

Alfyn grinned. "Well, then why don’t’cha give it a shot?” 

“Ha! Maybe I will!” 

Therion watched her take a vigorous bite, nearly dribbling juice down her chin. Alfyn wore an easygoing smile, but Therion knew that something was off about it. The bastard knew that she couldn’t do it. 

Once she had eaten that portion of the fruit, she readied a seed, moving it into position behind her lips. Judging by the expression she was making, she was mustering up a pretty substantial amount of strength.

Alfyn giggled.

Tressa spat. It shot out at light speed, probably bearing all the force required to stun and kill a bear... and bounced pathetically off of a middle step, ricocheting off into the unknown. Tressa scowled, disappointed. 

“Wow,” commented Therion, flatly, and her frown only deepened, cheeks colouring from embarrassment. 

“Sh-shut up!” she snapped. “It’s harder than it looks, you know!"

"Sure is!" replied Alfyn, amiably. "It's mighty difficult. So don't worry if ya can't."

Tressa turned her glare towards him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Uh-huh, okay, and can  _ you _ do it?" she demanded, receiving a placid smile in return. Therion knew just by looking that he thought he could, but how could he? Tressa's aim was off, sure, but she couldn't hit the target even if that wasn't a factor.

So.... how could  _ he _ do it?

"Well, how 'bout'cha sit back and let ol'Alfyn knock your socks off?" he drawled, winking, and she scoffed. 

"Sure! Fine! I'd love to see you  _ try _ , O seed-spitting  _ champion. _ "

Therion, frankly, had no idea how this would go. His confidence alone spelled out that he was fully capable of it. Common sense, however...

Therion watched him bite into the fruit, carefully chewing and getting a seed in place, aiming. 

There wasn't much spectacular about the technique he used. It was much less forceful than Tressa's attempt, and he had tipped his head back slightly, moving forwards as he went as if to push it along. That shouldn't, in Therion's eyes, have made a difference.

Yet, amazingly, the seed sailed in an arc and bounced off of the rock.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” mumbled Therion, dumbfounded. 

“No  _ way _ ! Alfyn!!” exclaimed Tressa, looking from the rock and back to him, and he laughed raucously in response. “H-how’d you do it? How’d you get it to go that  _ far _ ??”

He only winked in response, telling her to keep trying. 

So, she did. She took another bite and tried to hit the rock, but they all fell short regardless of how much force she put into it, each of them scattering and bouncing off of the stairs. Apparently it was harder than it looked. 

“Hey, Therion, why don’t you give it a shot?” asked Alfyn, nudging him lightly with his fist. 

Therion cast his focus towards the smattering of black seeds at their feet. They were reasonably far, but still nowhere near that godsdamned rock. How in the _hells_ had he managed that? 

“... Why would I?” he shrugged, airily. “Obviously you can do it. So why should I bother?” 

Tressa muttered something along the lines of  _ Yeah, well, you’re just no fun. _ Alfyn, however, blinked, taken aback. Therion wasn’t entirely sure as to why. 

“...Huh? This... ain't a competition,” Alfyn eventually said, scratching the back of his head. “Like, yeah, I know that I can do it. So, um... y’know, maybe it was a little unfair of me to try an’... get you guys to try, too, even though I  _ know _ that I can, but... that definitely wasn’t me tryin’ to make it a contest.” 

So it wasn’t a competition. For whatever reason, Therion felt surprise at that. Why wasn’t it? Alfyn could win. Alfyn  _ would _ win, in all likelihood. 

So... why didn’t he make it one? 

“I mean...” Alfyn continued, and Therion realized that his confusion must have been written over his face. “It’s mighty unfair to trick other people in a competition if you  _ know  _ that they probably haven’t done it before, and you're a lot better than them at it. It’s only a contest if it’s on even turf, right? Otherwise it’s just an excuse to laugh at others, and that ain’t right.” 

_ Just an excuse to laugh at others.... _

A hand on his shoulder, green at the borders of his vision. Orange hair, strong arms, cold blue eyes, smiling, leering disguised beneath playfulness. 

_ ‘Ey, teapot... betcha can’t ‘it that spot on the wall with your knife. _

Of course he couldn’t. At that time, he was thirteen and his old partner was fifteen, already much larger and stronger and more skilled with a knife than he could hope to be.

He tried, though. He tried, even as his partner laughed whenever he missed, biting back the bitterness, the salt of humiliated tears as he would trudge over to pick up his dagger, laying mockingly on the floor. 

Just as vivid as the disgrace was the whistle of a blade flying inches above his head, lodging hard in the wood next to the target, his heart pounding in his chest.

So maybe Alfyn wasn’t like that.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, really, because he wasn’t the type to do that, exactly, but it still did. He sat there for a moment, considering his words, letting them play out again in his head. 

He considered it for a long time. 

Time passed, and Therion wasn’t too sure what to think of it.  _ ‘Enjoyable’ _ was too strong a word. He wouldn’t say that something as menial and mundane as this, as sitting in a strip of shade with a soft-hearted hick and a girl who hated his entire being, eating fruits and spitting seeds into the desert... was  _ enjoyable _ . 

It wasn’t  _ bad _ , though. It really wasn’t bad. 

They sat there on the steps for a while longer, even after they were out of fruits and satisfied, and none of them really thought about getting up until the sun set, Therion included.

It was new, and strange, and yet not entirely alien, by that point.

Once evening started to end, and night began its steady creep over the horizon, they retreated back into the ruins and began to settle down for the night. Their conversations started to dwindle, tired from the trek and from the heat, and it didn't take long for them to start saying their goodnights to one another. Alfyn bade Therion goodnight, receiving a muttered " _Night_ " in return, and he closed his eyes, settling in to his blanket.

However, as Therion tried to get some sleep, he learned of the other misery of the desert.

The first misery, of course, was the heat. The effects of sunlight seemed to be amplified tenfold in this region, and it had made the day significantly longer and more unpleasant than it really was. However, he quickly found that night in the desert brought the opposite problem— without the heat from the sun, it got  _ cold. _

Therion shivered in his bedroll, silently cursing the unpredictability of the region. Sure, he didn't  _ love _ sleeping when it was hot out, since he never seemed to get comfortable, regardless of how many layers he shed. But, sleeping outside in the cold was unpleasant in a different way, one that was altogether more dangerous, and he drew his blanket tighter to his body, annoyed. Fuck this place. Fuck the sand, fuck the heat, fuck the cold, fuck everything  _ about _ this shitty fucking place.

_ Oh, and fuck the Ravuses, _ he added, for good measure.  _ Because if I hadn’t set foot in their shitty fucking mansion, then I wouldn’t even  _ **_be_ ** _ here. _

His life sucked, he was cold, and he was mad. Therion angrily shifted beneath the covers, cursing at how worn they were. They barely offered any protection from the regular temperatures and elements, let alone what felt like some sort of polar vortex wind sucked straight from the asshole of the Frostlands, and he despised himself for not replacing them sooner. Now that he didn’t have to worry about people catching on to his face, or his profession, he had become richer than he had been in quite a while. He could have bought better blankets. 

Therion shuddered again, and the bedroll next to him shifted. 

“Hey,” Alfyn whispered, and Therion peeked over with one open eye. Was he talking to him?

Sure enough, as far as he could discern in the limited light, Alfyn was facing him, eyes open, waiting. 

Therion let out a small sigh through his nose. Alfyn clearly knew that he was awake, so there was no point in pretending that he wasn’t. “... What?” 

“... You cold?” 

So he heard him shivering... Therion sighed again. Why was he so stupidly observant?

“.... I... Look, it was... a  _ lot  _ warmer during the day,” Therion replied, shortly. How was he supposed to know that he’d freeze to death once the sun set? If anything, were he asked to make a bet before that moment on what he _thought_ happened at night, he’d assume that it somehow got even hotter, because maybe this place wasn’t shitty enough to begin with, and it wouldn’t even have surprised him.

_ But  _ **_no_ ** _ , of  _ **_course_ ** _ it would get  _ **_cold_ ** _. _

Alfyn nodded sympathetically, spikes bobbing in the darkness. The moonlight barely reached them inside the ruins. This level of blackness was a double-edged sword to Therion, who was painfully aware that, while the night hid him well, it lent exactly the same kindness to whatever  _ other _ things might be in the room with him, lurking just out of his line of sight, his limited night vision. 

_ We could actually be covered in scorpions or some shit right now. Like how would I know? I can’t see a damned thing. _

“Yeah,” agreed Alfyn, chuckling softly. “Yeah, I, uh... didn’t really expect it to get so cold.”

_ I think I'd shit myself if I were covered in scorpions. _

“So, um, lemme just get you somethin’...” Alfyn said, reaching over towards his bag. “Since you’re shivering...” 

It was hard to tell what was happening, but Alfyn's silhouette sat up and leaned a bit closer, raising his arms. He seemed to be holding something.

The subtle weight of something like an extra blanket draping over him stilled his heart, and Therion realized that it smelled like sunlight and herbs. It was Alfyn’s mantle.

“W-wait. Wait. Um...” Therion stammered, unsure what he was so confused about, or why it even bothered him. “Weren’t you... cold at all?” 

"A bit, but not enough to be shiverin' like you. So I’m thinkin’ that you need it more than I do right now.” 

Therion, truthfully, wasn’t wanting to reject this strange act of kindness. It had a pleasant weight over his body, and he shrugged, allowed it. If he wanted to do this to him, then fine. 

He’d let him. He’d let him, and Alfyn was happy with that. 

“That better?” Alfyn asked, and Therion thought about it. So far, it hadn’t done much. He was still cold, still shivering, and that probably wouldn’t change for a while yet. 

But, somehow, his face felt warmer, and he could only stammer out a small " _ y-yeah" _ in response. 

“Good. That’s good to hear,” replied Alfyn, soft, genuine, gentle. “... Alright. I’m gonna try an’ go back to sleep now. Or, uh, go back to tryin’ to go to sleep. 

Therion rolled his eyes. “Mhm,”

“Okay. Lemme know if there’s anythin’ else I can get for ya, okay?” 

There was a pause, and Therion clued in that he was probably waiting for a response. “Mmmhm.”

“Good. Okay, then... Night, Therion. Hope ya sleep a little better now.” 

They had already said goodnight earlier. Therion sighed. “... Night.” 

The vague outline of Alfyn’s body moved back into a lying position, blankets shifting. Therion heard him give out a comfortable sigh as he settled into place again, going still. He wasn’t asleep yet, but perhaps he would sleep better now, satisfied that he had done something kind for Therion, someone he still called his friend despite everything, someone he still seemed to care about anyways, even after all the hell he’s put him through. 

He still gave him his mantle. 

Therion thought about it for a while longer, staring up into the blackness above his head. An apothecary’s mantle was a fairly significant thing to be lent, in a way— next to his bag, Alfyn’s mantle was symbolic of not only his profession, but his care. Apothecaries (good apothecaries, anyways) treated others out of concern, out of love, perhaps, and people relied on them. People sought them out for help, asked about them whenever they heard that one had crossed into the town’s borders, spoke kindly of them as a whole, and it almost felt wrong for Therion, a thief, a vagrant, and a murderer, to feel one across his body. 

_ Wolf in sheep’s clothing... _

It felt wrong, since it felt like he didn’t deserve it. But, it smelled comfortable, familiar, so he didn’t move it off of him. 

And, as he drew it tighter around his body and started to warm up, started to drift off to sleep, it only occurred to him then that it smelled like  _ Alfyn _ .

 

* * *

 

Sunshade, as it turned out, got its name from the cliffs surrounding it, rendering the majority of the city veiled in shadow.

It was a dark town, but the locals didn’t seem to have resigned themselves to the drab of the shade. To combat the darkness, many of the buildings were covered in whitewash and bright paint, and some of the residents had even painted designs around the door frames and windows. Lanterns burned in the darkest corners, laundry fluttered from clotheslines, and the scent of food cooking wafted from the open shutters, fragrant and flavourful. Therion’s stomach rumbled.

“Wow, this place is so cool!” enthused Tressa, hefting her backpack a bit higher. “It’s so different from Rippletide here!” 

_ Unless Rippletide also happened to be in a desert, I’d imagine so, _ thought Therion, a bit sarcastically.  _ The desert’s kind of the opposite of that. _

“Isn’t it fascinating?” agreed Cyrus, smiling appreciatively. “The Sunlands boasts clothing and architectural features that are unlike anything else found in the rest of the continent. Though small elements of Sunlands culture can be seen in neighbouring regions, generally speaking, all of it is perfectly unique to suit the people’s desert lifestyle.”

“It’s truly interesting to see all the differences in how people adapt to their environments,” nodded Ophilia, watching locals going about their daily errands. Therion noted how many of them wore their scarves similar to how he had wrapped his, looping over his head and the back of his neck. Perhaps he was on to something...? “For the Frostlands, our main source of difficulty is the cold, obviously... as well as the fewer daylight hours in the middle of winter. This seems to be the opposite.” 

_ I’d think so. The Frostlands and the Sunlands are definitely the  _ **_most_ ** _ opposite regions, I think. _

“I don’t like the cold very much,” sighed Tressa, fanning herself off with her hand. “So even though this is  _ waaay  _ hotter than I’m used to, this is still  _ sooo  _ much better than it being really cold.” 

“Dost thou thinketh so?” wondered H’aanit, wiping sweat from her brow. Even just by a glance, Therion could tell that she disagreed. “The Woodlands art temperate by nature... rarely doth it becomen as hot as here, summertime included.” 

“Mm, yeah, that makes sense,” supposed Alfyn, nodding thoughtfully. “I’d reckon that the treetops help keep it a lot cooler there.” 

“Aye, the kindness of the forest knoweth no bounds,” she replied, and there was a wistful note to her tone. “This region art unlike anything that I knoweth. ‘Tis strange, to be in a land that lacketh most greenery.” 

Linde made a short, pained noise. She seemed especially upset by it. 

“Ease thine heart, Linde,” H’aanit soothed, patting her shoulder. “We shalle finden the inn, and thou mayest taken a rest.” 

Another huff from Linde. Therion agreed. 

Thankfully, a kind local helpfully pointed them in the direction of the inn upon Ophilia's asking, and the seven travelers (and one cranky snow leopard) trudged up the west stairs, finding an inn halfway up on their right. The elderly innkeeper was in the middle of sweeping the stoop, but set his broom aside upon seeing them approach, bowing his head in welcome. Ophilia struck up a pleasant conversation with him (one that Therion didn’t really bother paying attention to), and he allowed them in after a moment, smiling at each of them as they passed by. 

Inside, a tiny, gnarled old woman sat behind a counter, giving them a toothless grin. Therion presumed that she was the innkeeper’s wife. 

This time, Tressa talked with the woman. Therion realized that she was subtly trying to score a bargain, and decided not to interfere. Paying less for things always sat well with him, and not having to put on the part of being a charming young traveler in front of other people was also a boon.

Room arrangements were made at that time, with two travelers to a room (with the exception of H'aanit, who ended up with a double room for herself). Though the vast majority of the town was sheltered from direct sunlight, it was still uncomfortably warm out, to Therion. So, for the first time, he was overwhelmingly relieved when it was decided that he would follow the usual arrangement of him sharing a room with Alfyn. 

"Aw, hell yeah!" Alfyn enthused, even though it had been more or less a given. "Hey, Therion, looks like we're roomies again, huh?"

Therion scoffed and took his key, heading down the hall with the others. What was he so happy about? "Yeah, like usual."

"You think I'm gonna complain about that? Fuck no. Hangin' out with you's a lotta fun, y'know?" 

Genuine as ever. Therion grumbled out something that might have been " _ shut up _ ", and unlocked the door.  

The room was somewhat different than the other inns they'd stayed at, with amenities more suited to the extremes of the desert. Therion dumped his stuff ungracefully on the nearest bed, noting the knit blankets pulled over the mattress. It was still far too hot at that moment for him to want to even  _ think _ about laying beneath them, but he now understood just how much of a blessing those would be later on, when the sun went down. 

“So I was thinkin’,” said Alfyn, as he set up his part of the room. “that maybe we oughta check out the markets before they close down for the evenin’. Innkeep said that there's a lotta cool shit in there.” 

_ Cool shit, huh?  _ Frankly, Therion was more in the mood for just laying the fuck down and doing absolutely nothing, but Alfyn seemed so genuinely enthusiastic about the thought of traipsing through the market that he probably couldn’t convince him to stick around the room and keep him cool instead no matter how hard he tried. 

That, and if he put his shawl back on, he might be able to stash away some goods without anyone spotting him. He put it back on despite the heat, pushing his scarf back down around his neck. It was fine. If he stayed around Alfyn (or Cyrus, technically, though he’d rather not be forced to listen to him prattle on for an hour solid), then he’d  _ probably  _ not die from heatstroke like this.

_ Or maybe I will. Guess we’ll see. _

With that taken care of, that was how he found himself trudging along behind Alfyn as he asked the others about whether or not they wanted to go with them.

He wasn’t overly surprised that Tressa was extraordinarily enthusiastic about going shopping. It was only natural that the merchant girl would nearly piss herself in her excitement to pick up foreign goods. Therion thought it to be a bizarre concept, to be more interested in buying and trading goods for the sake of others, but he was also well aware that the vast majority of people found his lifestyle and view of other people’s belongings as strange. Perspective, and all.

Cyrus wanting to join them was also not much of a shock. The man was curious to a fault, and obnoxiously knowledgeable about the customs and cultures of the continent. Surely he saw this as less of a shopping excursion and more of a class field trip, where he’d happily ramble on about whatever (history-based) fluff and nonsense was packed inside that pretty little head of his whenever he picked up a piece of pottery or a local food. Were the professor less genuine of a person, Therion might have assumed that he simply did it to show off. 

Ophilia... well, her wanting to come was also reasonably expected. She was a fairly normal person overall. Normally people would be curious about the chance to see local goods. 

Otherwise, Olberic kindly declined for the time being. Being from the Highlands, he was very much unused to the sweltering heat of the desert, and wanted to cool himself for a while. H’aanit was the only other one who chose to stay inside, saying that she ought to let Linde rest for a time. Come evening, when it was cooler, perhaps they would explore the town. 

So, off to the markets they went. 

Therion resisted the urge to take his shawl off once they stepped outside, aware that he’d need it on if he were going to try and walk away with something for his troubles. This region truly was a hassle.

“Innkeep said that we’ll find the market in the main square, right?” asked Alfyn, towards Ophilia. 

“Yes, that’s it,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Apparently it’s along the center road, which should lead up to the tavern.”

“Ooh, hell yeah!” enthused Alfyn, grinning. “I know where  _ I’m  _ goin’ after I’m done shoppin’!” 

_ Me too, honestly... _ To Therion, the thought of a drink of some kind after their trek sounded _incredibly_ appealing right about then. Alfyn going with him, normally something he didn’t think much of, would be a blessing in this sweltering heat. Perhaps he could convince him to make some ice cubes for his ale...? 

They descended the steps and followed the main road into the heart of the city, finding banners and ribbons declaring the start of the market— or, well, the  _ bazaar _ , according to the signs. Therion had only heard the word on a couple of occasions, let alone seen it written out. The spelling was different than he had expected.

“So this is the bazaar...” Cyrus murmured, chin pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“Wooow,” breathed Tressa, clapping her hands together. She looked very much like a child being told that their birthday was coming up.

Therion couldn't really blame her— it was truly a sight to behold, especially for all those who came from lands very much unlike this one. Richly dyed and woven cloths were stretched high overhead, creating a canopy over the multitude of booths, and men and women of all ages and social castes sat or stood on either side of the street, some with tables, others with their wares on mats before them. The air was lively, with chatter and laughter and music floating over the din of the crowds. The instrument producing the music in question was strange, a hand-cranked thing that looked vaguely reminiscent of a small mandolin, though it bore a row of button-like keys rather than strings. The noise it made was complex, almost nasally, accompanied by the soft rasp of the flywheel as it turned. Therion hadn’t quite heard anything like it before, but decided that it was nice. 

“Oh, a hurdy-gurdy?” mused Cyrus, and Therion very nearly spat out a laugh at the unexpected name. Never in a million years might he have supposed that  _ that _ would be the actual name of the thing, let alone a set of words to have come out of Cyrus’s mouth. 

The player had placed his hat down before him, and some leaves could be seen at the bottom, offered in thanks for his playing. Alfyn’s eyes lit up at the sound, and he went over to drop some coins in the man’s hat.  

Therion watched the coins fall, and he remembered that they were his, at some point before. As far as he knew, Alfyn still hadn’t accepted any particular payment for his work. Hells, even if he  _ had, _ it still wouldn’t have made enough of a difference to make it so that the coins he gave the musician weren’t once Therion’s. 

It shouldn’t have mattered. What Alfyn did with the money Therion had given him was none of his business. If he wanted to piss it all away drinking or gambling or tossing it to every sad-faced unfortunate sniveling on the sides of the streets, that was his prerogative. 

But, he knew that this wasn’t the same thing. Alfyn rejoined them and they approached the market, and all Therion could think of, for a moment, was the stinging pull of a hand in his hair, a low growl of  _ Therion, you fuckin’ imbecile,  _ the punishment he had come up with later that day for Therion having "wasted" their leaves on something as stupid as a  _ busker. _

Of course, nobody got angry at Alfyn for his kindness. If anything, everyone seemed happy that he would do that.

Therion wanted to be, as well. He wanted to be, since once upon a time, he would have done the same. 

Maybe he’d still do the same, once they were done shopping.

They went inside. Though it wasn’t a  _ huge  _ marketplace by any means, the variety of the goods and the novelty of it all was still fascinating. Therion, curious about what this barren land could possibly offer (and what he could slip into his pockets), now had absolutely no qualms about following Alfyn into the bazaar.

“Though the Sunlands, at a glance, seem to offer very little, one can see just how many goods the region produces simply by stepping into the bazaar,” Cyrus observed, eyes glittering. He seemed excited about this.

“Yeah!” enthused Tressa, and it became clear by her tone that she was, by far, the person most happy to be there. “I just  _ know  _ that I’ll find some treasures here! I can practically smell ‘em!” 

Therion sniffed. Floral, spicy, smoky, along with the general scent of a market street. He fought off the urge to sneeze.

“That would be incense, I think,” supposed Ophilia, giggling. “Actually, some of the incenses that are used in the cathedral’s thurible are imported from the Sunlands. In fact, I might be able to point them out.” 

“Frankincense and myrrh are the most common incense components in the Frostlands, are they not?” asked Cyrus, and Ophilia nodded, expression nostalgic.

“Yes, those are what we burn on Sundays, our Days of Thanks. That would therefore make them the most commonly-burnt incenses at the cathedral.” 

“Myrrh’s an antiseptic, so it’s useful in other ways, too,” chimed in Alfyn. “Frankincense, though... well, mostly it just smells good.”

The conversations naturally broke off shortly after that point, with Tressa hoisting her backpack a touch higher and making a beeline for the jeweler, who had various rings and brooches set out and sparkling. Therion cursed internally. Had he seen those sooner, he might have tried to take a closer look himself _before_ she had made it there. 

With Tressa already there, though, he decided not to, and instead followed Alfyn and the rest of the group as he  _ oohed _ and  _ ahhed _ over just about everything in the damn place, eyes bright with excitement. Therion supposed that he couldn’t really blame him. There was a lot to look at, after all, and he found himself getting distracted as well. 

Small as the bazaar was, the wares were still diverse. A pair of women draped in brightly-coloured silks smiled next to a display of hand-carved soaps, one of them in the middle of shaping petals out with a blade. The woman selling the soap struck up a conversation with an entranced Ophilia, talking about the ups and downs of running a business with her wife. Next to them, an elderly man had a semicircle of baskets set out before him. They were each filled with heaping piles of nuts and seeds. A middle-aged woman held one between thumb and forefinger, haggling down the price. In the background, just barely over the chatter of the crowds, the clunking of a loom could be heard. An incredibly intricate bolt of cloth slowly wound around its roller, and Therion briefly wondered how it worked, exactly, for the final product to come from something as simple as different-coloured threads. 

“Ooohh, perfect!” came Alfyn’s voice, floating in from somewhere to his right, and Therion glanced over to see him looking towards a man with various herbs, seeds, and glass phials on his table, all of which looked rather like things that Therion would find while rummaging through Alfyn's bag. Knowing him, he'd be there for a good long while, no doubt befriending him and coaxing out his entire life story as he examined every single one of his wares.

Yeah. He'd definitely be there for a while.

And, just as Therion followed him to the booth and resigned himself to his fate of being terribly, hideously bored, a trio of women in revealing clothes passed by, talking amongst themselves. 

For a moment, he took stock of them. Dancers, by what he could tell. They all wore beautiful silver jewelry and silks in various colours, each as rich and bright as gemstones. Surely some of their bangles and baubles would fetch him a leaf or two, were he to play his cards right and slip them into a black market, or else resell them at a faraway jeweler’s.

He didn't need to, really, but his fingers itched. 

He took a moment to figure out what the others were doing. Alfyn was distracted, thankfully, cheerily chatting up the medicine seller. Cyrus and Tressa were examining some pottery (no doubt with Cyrus telling her all about the entire history of Orsterran pottery traditions, or something equally dry). Ophilia had apparently charmed the soapmakers to the point of being invited to sit on their mats as one of them taught her to carve basic shapes. H’aanit, Linde, and Olberic were all back at the inn.

Therefore, for a rare and blessed moment, nobody was paying attention to him.  

_ Oh fuck yeah. _

He cast another glance around him, then slipped away into the crowds unseen. Nobody followed him.

Now that he was alone, he set about tailing the women. It wasn’t particularly hard, with how busy the street was, and those that did see him didn’t find anything odd about him pursuing them. Such was the cruel nature of pleasure districts (and pleasure towns, such as Sunshade)— men followed women like wolves stalking sheep, and it was so commonplace that nobody thought much of it. 

It didn’t feel great, he thought, but he kept walking. 

But, as he passed by a side street, he caught a glimpse of scarlet out of the corner of his eye. 

He cast a glance down the alley, and saw, at the far end, a woman consulting a map. She had long brown hair and was dressed in fine red silk, and something about her made Therion pause for a moment, examining.

Another dancer, judging by the clothes she was wearing. Her wrists and ankles were heavily adorned with gold, and she wore an ornamental belt and necklace that were even more extravagant, shimmering in what little light there was in the shadows of the town. Costume or no, she was easily one of the most stunningly beautiful women that Therion had ever seen, certainly more lavish than the other dancers in town by far.

But, what appealed to him far _ , far _ more than her appearance was the dagger at her thigh.

And  _ oh, _ that was a beautiful dagger. 

Even just by looking at the hilt, he could tell that it was entirely unlike anything that he'd find at a standard blacksmith's. No, this was something different, something custom-made, and he  _ knew _ that it would have been incredibly expensive to commission, let alone resell in a black market. 

Daggers were generally not the  _ easiest _ things in the world to take, but that was also part of the thrill. Therion, a master at his craft, usually had no trouble whatsoever working them free, especially if the target in question was moving or busy, and therefore wouldn’t notice a sneaky little hand making off with their weapon and melting away into the crowds. 

This woman, distracted as she was by her map, would be an easy target. 

He cast a quick glance around, finding that nobody nearby seemed to be paying any attention to him. They were all busy with their errands, with the shops lining the street, with the general commotion of a pleasure town. Alfyn and the others still weren't watching him. Therefore....

He made himself light on his feet, walking naturally enough but silently, so that she truly wouldn't suspect anything. Why would she? It was perfect. Busy streets, busy mind, probably thinking far,  _ far _ too hard about what to do, where to go next....

He drew nearer, reaching out.

And, just before his fingers closed around the hilt, a voice rang out from behind him. 

“H-hey!!” shouted Tressa, and Therion’s body froze, cold sweat oozing from his pores.  _ What? Where the fuck did  _ **_she_ ** _ come from?! _

The woman jumped at the sound, glancing to find the source of it. Doing so made her spot him, hand still outstretched, and Therion swallowed.

For one long, long moment, he made eye contact with her.

Then, a sudden gust of wind from below flipped his shawl like an umbrella, obscuring his vision.

“Wh-what the  _ fuck _ ?!” Therion exclaimed, blindly reaching to push his clothes back down. As he did, though, a hand caught him by the wrist and twisted him to the ground, ribs landing hard against the pavers. He tried to wriggle free, but her knee pressed firmly enough into his spine to make him wheeze from pain. Evidently the woman didn't take too kindly to him trying to rob her.

“Little thief,” she muttered, voice jagged with irritation. “A  _ foolish _ thief, at that.”

He knew that the arm with the bangle was still caught in her hold (and the fool’s bangle therefore perfectly visible), and he growled from frustration. He _could_ wrench it free, sure, but the knee in his back hurt— this woman, delicate as she seemed, didn't seem to have any particular qualms about injuring him.

He almost wanted to laugh. And he thought that  _ H'aanit _ was bad...  

“Get  _ off _ of me!” Therion snapped, attempting to wriggle free from beneath her. He managed to work his head out from beneath his shawl, but little else. From his position, he couldn't see her, but he  _ could _ see Tressa, and he shot her a glare so withering that she started to laugh uncomfortably, shifting in place. Several curious passersby were standing around watching, and he scowled at them all, hating their mildly amused stares.  _ Fuck off, mind your business. _

“I think not, little thief,” she replied, and he felt the warm edge of a metal blade against the side of his neck. His motions stilled. _ Fuck. _

“This is your fault,” he said, towards her, and Tressa bristled defensively. 

“W-well,  _ yeah _ , I didn't want you  _ stealing _ anything!” she retorted, crossing her arms. “I don’t  _ care _ if you saved my life; it still doesn't make it right to take other people's things! I'm not going to turn a blind eye to things if I can stop ‘em!” 

“Valiant girl,” the woman praised, in a softer tone. 

“That's nice,” came Therion's (much less appreciative) reply. “Now how about you stop this bitch from stabbing me?”

“H-hey, don’t call her that!” 

“Yes, please don’t call me that. I mean... I am  _ used _ to it, but...”

“ _ Bitch _ ,” Therion repeated, hissing as the edge of the blade bit his skin. He doubted somewhat that she would  _ actually  _ murder him, seeing as to how they were very much out in public in the daytime, but he knew that he was playing with fire regardless. 

_ Well, playing with steel, I guess, but whatever. _

“You truly are lucky,” the woman said, softer, dark enough with ire that Therion felt uneasy. “that we are in a public street. These past few days have been some of the worst that I have  _ ever  _ had, and, quite frankly, if we were alone right now, then I'd—” 

“W-wait, wait, wait, um...” stammered Tressa, shifting uncomfortably. “I uh... I don't really  _ agree _ with him, buuut...”

She looked at the knife nervously, and Therion sighed.  _ Oh,  _ **_what_ ** _ a relief it is to hear that, even though you  _ **_hate_ ** _ me, you draw the line at me being  _ **_murdered_ ** _...  _

“Ohhhh  _ fuck _ ,” a faraway voice said, familiar, and Therion recognized it as Alfyn's voice. He couldn't turn his head to look at him, but he heard the sound of him rushing over, with several other footsteps following behind.  _ The cavalry’s finally fucking here. _

The cavalry in question arrived bearing the form of a scruffy, bag-toting hick and his band of misfits, each of them in varying states of concern, and Therion felt a complex mixture of relief and embarrassment wash over him. Humiliating as it was, he supposed that it was nice that they decided to try and step in to help, rather than just standing back and shaking their heads, muttering their contemptuous words like _he_ would have done— 

_ Don’t. _

“Hooooookay,” Alfyn said, dragging out the word as he stepped forwards, hands raised in a peaceful gesture. “Okay, um, so I  _ know  _ this looks bad—” 

“Don’t come any closer,” the woman commanded, and the blade was gone from his neck. Therion presumed that she was now pointing it at Alfyn, who had stopped in his tracks, hands raised a bit more.

“O-okay. Okay, I won’t,” Alfyn replied, and he didn’t. “Just— I just wanna know what’s goin’ on.” 

There was the faintest edge of hostility in his tone, but it was mostly... scared? 

_ Alfyn's worried. _

“Are you associated with him?” asked the woman, and Therion supposed that she was referring to him. 

“Yeah. We’re all travelin’ together. So what’s goin’ on?”

“What’s going on? Well, your little  _ thief  _ attempted to steal my dagger,” replied the woman, flatly. 

Alfyn’s expression, for just a moment, became very tired. “Therion...” he sighed, and Therion did his best to shrug.

“What...? It’s a nice dagger.”

“Idiot,” muttered Tressa, shaking her head.

“Isn’t it?” the dancer said, and there was a hint of sardony in her voice. “This ‘nice dagger’ is the sole remaining heirloom in my name, passed down to me by my father. You'd have had better luck stealing my bracelets.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he said, and the knee in his back dug in again, making him groan. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Alfyn, hastily, just barely restraining himself from stepping closer. “O-okay, um, so I know you’re probably...  _ real  _ fuckin’ mad at him, but he’s my friend, and so I  _ really  _ don’t want you to kill him, so, uh, if you’d please let him go, that’d be great.”

Therion didn’t really know what he expected from her. Part of him figured that she would simply slit his throat and run, or else try and ask why she ought to spare him, or even just why Alfyn would possibly care about someone as worthless as  _ him _ , but she didn’t. There was simply a pause, as if she was thinking about something he had said, and he felt her weight ease off of him— not enough to let him escape, but enough that she wasn’t actively crushing his vertebrae anymore. 

“... You’re... an apothecary, are you not?” she wondered, cautiously, and Alfyn nodded. 

“Yeah. That’s right. Anythin’ I can help you with?” 

She must have shaken her head, because Therion didn’t hear a verbal reply. Instead, she asked a different question.

“... And you mentioned before that this thief is your friend?” 

Alfyn nodded. “Yeah, he’s my friend.”

There was a long beat of silence from the woman, as if she couldn’t quite understand what Alfyn had said, and Therion supposed that he couldn’t really blame her— it was pretty weird that Alfyn, a “good guy”, would have a lowly scoundrel of a thief as a  _ friend _ . 

But, he did. He did, and she seemed to detect that he wasn’t lying about that. 

“An apothecary... and not only you, but a cleric of the Sacred Flame...?” she mused, and Ophilia smiled, giving a slight bow of the head. 

“Yes, I am a Sister of the Sacred Flame,” she replied, just as politely as she would to anyone else. Were Therion not pinned to the ground still, he’d have almost forgotten that the woman above him had nearly driven her dagger into his neck. “And yes, even despite his profession, Therion is my friend.” 

_ ‘Despite his profession’. Wow, what a relief. _

Still, though, it was strange to hear not one, but two members of the party outright state that he was their friend. Albeit, these two were the most likely personality-wise to say it, but even so. 

To this woman, who probably expected that a holy woman and a man focused on bringing healing to the masses would hate him the most, this probably told volumes about their characters— or, perhaps, about his own. 

To Therion’s surprise, the dancer laughed. It wasn’t quite a friendly sound, though, so he didn’t feel any more reassured by it.

“...  _ Truly _ ,” she said, slowly. “it makes me wonder what kind of people you are... for you to proclaim that you’d befriend a thief with such pride.”

Her tone was on the verge of being outright hostile, but Alfyn simply shrugged. “We’re just travelers. Least, I am. An’, y’know, it doesn’t matter what Therion is, to me. What  _ does  _ matter is that he’s a good person, an’ that’s all there is to it.”

“A good person who tried to steal the only physical remnant of a family ripped from me, yes,” replied the dancer, acidic and cruel, and Therion scowled at the ground. Well, how was  _ he  _ supposed to know that?

“Hey, Therion?” Alfyn said, then, and Therion glanced up. “Ain’t there somethin’ you oughta be sayin’ to this lady?” 

Therion blinked, not understanding, before the realization of Alfyn hinting at him giving her an  _ apology _ dawned on him. His expression immediately pinched in distaste. He didn’t give  _ apologies _ . Apologies meant that he had fucked up. Apologies meant that he had been caught. Apologies meant that he had been close enough to someone to care enough to  _ want _ to make things right, or else to have disappointed someone to the point of asking him to say sorry, and he didn’t know how to feel. 

He hasn’t apologized to anyone as of late. Not the hundreds of people he’s stolen from, nor the travelers he’d been stuck with, nor anyone else. The only apology he’s given  _ anyone _ recently was Alfyn— one just before he snuck out and nearly gave him one of the worst mornings of his life, and one after he had come crawling back from his little excursion, if only because Alfyn looked as if he’d been holding back tears all morning.

_ And I was too much of a coward to say that first one while he was awake. _

He didn’t really want to apologize. It’s not as if he tried to take the dagger  _ just _ because it was important— how could he have known?

But, there was a chance that apologizing would make her get off of him, so he let out a ragged growl of a sigh, swallowing his pride and all the thorns that poked through in a swift, painful motion. 

“F- _ fine _ . Fine. I’m...” 

He hesitated, and Alfyn gave him a very small, encouraging smile. Therion wasn’t sure whether he preferred that to his old partner’s thinly-veiled threats of violence, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Therion to hurry up and spit it out, already—

_ Idiot. Alfyn won’t hit you. Not in front of people, anyways. _

“... I’m  _ sorry _ , okay?” he spat, and while the hostility in his tone would have fitted a curse better than an apology, Alfyn seemed satisfied. 

The woman, however, wasn’t. “Sorry for what, little thief?” 

_ I have a fucking name, you know.  _ “... S-sorry for... trying to take your dagger. It’s... important to you. And... it’s all you have left.”

His voice grew a touch quieter by the end, no less irritable but perhaps a hint more thoughtful, more aware of the fact that, were he in her shoes, he’d also be irate about this. What mementos did he carry, still, from his mother? 

None, now. The only one he’d ever had had been her ring, and it was lost after the fall, probably buried in the silt at the bottom of the riverbed. 

He had lost that, but Alfyn still had his coin, and this woman still had her dagger. Part of him was jealous, was angry that, like with everything, he seemed to end up with the short end of the stick. But, a second, smaller, quieter part of him told him that that didn’t matter then. He was miserable, but that didn’t really mean that he  _ had _ to go out of his way to make everyone as miserable as he was. 

Did they deserve that? Did they deserve that solely for being lucky enough to have kept their valuables in their possession? 

Not really.

There was a pause, and the weight disappeared completely. 

“... Alright. I suppose that I can accept that,” sighed the woman, and Therion immediately scrambled forwards, shoving himself to his feet to stand by Alfyn. 

“You okay?” Alfyn asked, immediately concerned, and Therion scoffed. 

“Oh, you know. Just fucking sublime,” he replied, venomously, shaking sand from his clothes. “Look at me go. Master Thief my ass. Foiled by a fucking dancer and a stupid kid.”

"Shit, hey, are ya bleedin'?" Alfyn asked, as he noticed the wound on his neck, and Therion avoided his prying concern. "You okay?"  


"I'm  _fine._ "

“Dancers often have other hidden skills,” the woman replied, shrugging. “How else would we survive such an unforgiving lifestyle?”

“‘ _ Kid’ _ ?!” shot back Tressa, indignant. “Therion, you  _ shithead _ , I’m eighteen! I’m an adult, too!” 

“T- _ Tressa _ !” gasped Ophilia, taken aback by the sudden curse word. Alfyn blinked, then laughed so hard that he was bent double, wheezing helplessly. Cyrus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Therion, on the other hand, was stunned.  _ Eighteen?? _ She looked to be maybe sixteen,  _ max _ . 

“... You've gotta be joking,” he said, and she became so incensed that she looked as if she might unstrap her spear and ram it up his ass. Therion’s lips curled in a mean smile.

“Therion, shut the  _ fu— _ ”

“Children, children,” Cyrus soothed, stepping in. His hands were raised as if he was trying to break up a fight between two students. “Please, do try not to bicker so noisily in the middle of the street.”

People were starting to look over once more by that point, and Therion supposed that he had a point. But, even so— 

“Children?!” both Therion and Tressa repeated, with Tressa’s voice being significantly louder than Therion’s. Alfyn giggled. Ophilia sighed.

“Well, both of you are children to me,” replied Cyrus, placidly. “Even though  _ yes _ , the two of you  _ are  _ apparently adults. In fact, since I happen to be the oldest one here, all of you could consider me as your chaperone.” 

“Like  _ any _ of us need a fucking chaperone,” muttered Therion. He felt several very cynical gazes in return, but chose not to acknowledge them.

For a moment, there was silence. The woman didn’t leave, and neither did they. 

Then, a small breeze rustled the corner of something Therion hadn’t even noticed— her map had been dropped in his botched attempt to make off with her dagger, and there it lay, lightly shifting in the wind. Ophilia must have also noticed this, as she stepped forwards and stooped down, taking the map and rolling it up.

“Pardon me, but... is this your map?” she wondered, conversational, and the dancer nodded, a touch taken aback.

“... Y-yes, thank you,” she said, and Therion saw her gaze rove over Ophilia before she accepted her map from her. She was wary. He supposed that, even though she had gone so far as to pin him to the ground and threaten his life, she seemed to have the most common sense out of them all so far.

“Please excuse me for prying, but are you planning on going on a trip?" 

The woman blinked, then gave a small, bitter laugh. 

"... I...  _ suppose _ that you could say that."

Ophilia's smile brightened a touch, pleased by this turn of events. Therion had a feeling of what was coming up next.

"Well shit, hey, if you'd rather travel with a group, then you can definitely come with us!" beamed Alfyn, and Therion just barely restrained himself from dragging his hands down his face. Really? He'd offer that to someone who might have  _ killed _ him?

Great. Wonderful. Stupendous.

He nearly opened his mouth to protest, but he was cut off by the woman laughing. It was a short, startled sound, partially sincere. It wasn’t surprising. Alfyn’s bizarre kindness was rare to begin with, let alone in a pleasure town. Surely she found the offer strange at the very least, and downright suspicious at the worst. Therion couldn’t fault her for that. 

However, once she realized that he wasn’t joking, she took her time studying them, watching them as they looked at her, at each other, around them. Her expression, while overwhelmingly distrustful, didn’t seem hostile, exactly. 

Curious, maybe. She did seem curious, and it made her stance a touch less aggressive. 

The dagger stayed out, though.

Nobody said anything. The passerby were no longer interested in the confrontation, and returned to their business. Therion, who had felt itchy beneath their stares, was relieved. 

And, finally, she gave a small sigh.

“... Sorry,” she apologized, sounding halfway between sad and tired. “While the thought is nice, I work alone. Besides... you all seem, by what I can discern, like good people.”

“Even Therion?” muttered Tressa, and Therion scoffed. 

“An’ what, you’re not?” asked Alfyn, tipping his head. “I mean, obviously I don’t know you, but... if this is about the whole thing with Therion tryin’ to—” 

“It’s not,” she replied, cutting him off. “Like I said, I work alone.”

_ Finally, _ thought Therion, nearly sighing from relief.  _ Someone who  _ **_doesn’t_ ** _ want to join us. _

“... Well, we certainly won’t  _ force  _ you to come with us,” relented Ophilia, worrying the handle of her lantern with her thumb. “... Um, if I may ask, though... where is is that you plan on going next?”

The dancer gave a very small, tired laugh. “... If you really must know, I’m off to the Frostlands.” 

“Oh, is that so?” wondered Cyrus, smiling as if this was a wonderful stroke of fortune. “Coincidentally, one of us is also aiming her course for the Frostlands. Surely it would be safer for you and us both if you come with us.” 

It would be safer, certainly. Therion had come to admit that a long time ago, regardless of what he thought of being around the rest of them. More people made it so that fewer monsters bothered them (and those that did were usually taken care of quickly), and their diversity of skills and talents ensured that everyone, more or less, covered each other’s weaknesses. 

The dancer seemed to consider this for a long moment, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Her hazel eyes slowly scanned them, considering each of them, sizing them up. 

She looked at Therion for a long time, perhaps the longest of them all, and then turned her gaze back to Cyrus.

“... Even though it would likely be safer for me, I still doubt that any of you wish to be associated with me.” 

“Why not?” wondered Tressa. “You can fight. And, um, we haven’t talked much, but you seem smart. Why wouldn’t we want you with us?”

Her gaze fixated on Tressa again, considering. Though her age had been revealed, she still seemed small somehow, innocent, and the dancer hesitated. Whatever explanation she had was clearly less pleasant than a simple lack of wanting to join the party.  

The dagger, edge still red with Therion’s blood, seemed much more menacing then.

“... Do you truly wish to know, girl?” she asked, and it felt like an ill omen of sorts. Were it not still so warm, Therion might have shivered. 

“Umm... y-yeah, I think so,” Tressa ventured, shifting uncomfortably. “I, uh... I think that whatever reason it is... y’know, can’t be  _ that _ bad, right?”

The woman blinked, then gave a very small laugh. It didn’t hold any humour within, however.

“... Why? Because I’m a murderer.” 

There was a beat of silence, save for the general noise of the street. Everyone had mixed expressions of surprise on their faces, of confusion, of unease. 

Well, all of them save for Therion, who really couldn’t find it surprising that this woman had supposedly killed someone. The way that she had been merciless in shoving him down, how he actually bled from her knife, how her voice had become so cutting and dangerous in an instant... spelled out that she had certainly killed, and might kill again.

She didn’t seem especially proud of it, though. Or, at least, not as if she loved killing enough to wish death upon any of them.

Unsurprisingly, she clearly expected that her confession would scare them away. Who wouldn’t run away from a woman who’s intentionally killed others, who had put the blade of that dagger to use, who had eyes that cold and wary? 

Therion knew better, though. After all, he was still there. 

Why?

“... Was it for fun?” Alfyn asked, a bit boldly, and she shrugged, scoffed. 

“... It was  _ satisfying _ ,” she admitted, though Therion could hear that it was still bothering her. The vague note of disgust, the tiny hesitation before her confession. A murderer, but not a killer. 

He didn’t like her, but he supposed that he could understand her, to a degree. 

“... But... no, it wasn’t for  _ fun _ .”

And, to her astonishment, Alfyn gave a gentle smile. “Then I can’t say that I’m bothered much.” 

She blinked, and stared, and said nothing. She didn’t seem to know  _ what _ to say.

However, even though he had said that, none of the others protested, or seemed to disagree  _ too _ much with his statement, at the very least. 

“I mean...” Alfyn continued, a bit awkwardly. “Killing’s not... a  _ good _ thing usually. I can’t... y’know, say that I  _ agree _ with it, but.... I dunno. I don’t know your life, y’know? I dunno what you’ve had to go through. I mean... you’re a dancer. Can’t imagine that it’s... all sunshine an’ rainbows, y’know?” 

The dancer gave a very small, bitter laugh. It wasn’t.

“So... as long as you don’t... like, make a hobby of it, we really wouldn’t mind lettin’ ya come along with us,” Alfyn concluded. “I mean, like we said, we’ve already got someone goin’ up to Stilsnow anyways. She’s gotta talk to the seer there.” 

The woman considered his words, and then switched her focus back to the two women of the party. 

“... So, one of you needs to talk to a seer in Stilsnow?”

Both Tressa and Ophilia shook their heads. 

“Nah, she’s back at the inn resting with her cat, Linde,” explained Tressa. “Her name’s H’aanit. She’s from the Woodlands, so I guess she’s not really used to the heat here.” 

“... The Woodlands. A huntress?” supposed the dancer. “Not too many people from the Woodlands come this way. You yourself look to be a merchant girl.” 

Tressa’s face split into a proud grin. “You’ve got it! Tressa Colzione of the Coastlands, at your service!” 

She stuck out a small hand, and the dancer passed her dagger to her other hand and took it, giving a quick shake. Her bangles jingled as she did.

“Woodlands, Coastlands...” she mused. “... Are... all of you from different regions...?” 

“... Yes, come to think of it, we all are,” replied Ophilia, thoughtfully. “As you have likely guessed by my dress, I am a servant of the Sacred Flame, Sister Ophilia Clement. My home is in Flamesgrace, in the Frostlands.” 

“Yeah, now that you say that, Sir Olberic’s from the Highlands, ain’t he...?” wondered Alfyn, receiving a ‘ _ Correct _ ’ from Cyrus, whom Therion’s recently decided is the group’s unofficial  _ Olberic Expert _ (save, of course, for Olberic himself).

“‘Sir’?” repeated the dancer. “... You have a knight amongst you?” 

Therion found the clear doubt in her eyes amusing. True, none of them, at a glance, looked even the slightest bit like knights. 

“Sir Olberic has elected to rest at the inn after our trek,” clarified Cyrus. “He himself has mentioned to us that he is not terribly fond of the heat.” 

_ Considering what he usually wears, I don’t really blame him... _ thought Therion. 

“And you’re from the Flatlands, I presume,” she said, towards Cyrus. His expression brightened significantly. 

“Yes! Yes, I am.” 

“... Noblecourt? No, no, let me guess...” she corrected, upon taking a closer look at his clothing. “Atlasdam. You’re a scholar.” 

Cyrus flashed her a dashing smile. “I’m impressed at your deduction skills. Yes, that is correct. My name is Professor Cy—” and Therion stopped listening.  _ He should invest in some business cards or something. Just save everyone the trouble and let them read your spiel to themselves.  _

“Y-yes, I see,” the dancer eventually said, and Therion tuned back in. Judging by Cyrus’s mildly embarrassed expression, he might have been interrupted by her. “...What an interesting collection of people. A professor from the Flatlands, a knight from the Highlands, a huntress from the Woodlands... Not only that, but a merchant from the Coastlands... a Flamebearer from the Frostlands, an apothecary from the Riverlands—” 

“Haha, hey, I never mentioned where I was from!” quipped Alfyn, impressed, and the woman’s nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly. 

“... You... didn’t  _ need _ to,” she replied, after a pause, and Therion stifled a snicker. 

“... And, lastly...” she continued, locking her gaze on Therion. “... A little thief without a home. Yes?” 

Alfyn scoffed. He almost seemed offended, but Therion only shrugged. “... Usually that’s the case with thieves, isn’t it?” 

“True enough. But you’re different than the others somehow... my mind says ‘Cliftlands’ for you, but... something still feels  _ off _ .”

“... What?” 

Her head tilted ever-so-slightly. “Pardon me if I’m wrong, but that’s not where you’ve spent the majority of your life.” 

Therion was only mildly impressed that she had guessed that he was most recently living in the Cliftlands. Process of elimination aside (excluding the fact that there was a chance that he could also have been living in the same region as one of the others), he was dressed something like a Cliftlands local. 

The fact that she seemed certain that he  _ wasn’t _ born in the Cliftlands interested him, however. 

“... Alright, then where was it?” he asked, and she glanced back at Alfyn before settling back on him. 

“The Riverlands.” 

Though it shouldn’t have  _ mattered _ , since it didn’t, really, something about her tone sent a cold shock through him, startled both that she had gotten it correct and that she was  _ confident _ that she had the right answer, and he just gaped for a moment, unable to form a response. How? How could she tell? 

“... The Riverlands?” repeated Alfyn, confused. 

“Yes,” she said, towards Alfyn. “When he’s angry, he sometimes he says words a little like you do... drags certain vowels out just a bit. People in the Cliftlands don’t sound exactly like he does. It sounds as if he’s worked hard to hide it, though...” 

Alfyn, of course, wouldn’t have noticed in the slightest. The subtle changes in Therion’s inflections wouldn’t be picked up on if they were similar to how he spoke anyways. Of course, he then looked over at Therion, eyes wide and nearly sparkling from this news, dumbstruck. Imagine that! Therion was also a fucking bumpkin.

Except, of course, he  _ wasn’t _ , because Riverford and Saintsbridge weren’t  _ Clearbrook _ . 

Therion remembered that she was probably waiting for a response, and gave a vague shrug, hiding back in his scarf. 

“... Who knows. Maybe you’re just thinking too hard about this,” he replied, as coolly as possible. Though, now that she’s pointed it out, he could hear the dregs of an old accent poking through over certain letters, and it irritated him. 

The dancer smiled unpleasantly, and he knew that she heard it, too. 

Alfyn opened his mouth to say something to him, but Therion shook his head, preventing him from asking it. Gods know he  _ wanted _ to ask. His eyes brimmed with curiosity, but he saw Therion’s expression and elected not to push further, which he was grateful for.

He didn't really want to talk about it. Remembering hurt.

There was a small silence then, and the woman studied them again. While she didn’t seem to  _ like _ them, necessarily, she didn’t really seem to want to leave quite yet.

Therion wished that she would. They had enough fucking people in their group by then.

“... Two healers,” she eventually murmured, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “Clerical and practical.”

“Uh-huh!” nodded Tressa. “Honestly, thanks to those two, we haven’t really had to deal with much of anything! I mean, when I first met everyone here, I had a broken leg! But Ophilia fixed it right back up!” 

At Ophilia’s name, the dancer glanced towards her, as if piecing together this new information. 

“... You’re powerful enough to mend broken bones?” 

Ophilia’s cheeks turned pink. “O-oh, well... I still need to practice a lot more, but... yes, I can usually heal injuries that severe, at least to a degree.”

“... Hmm...” 

A light breeze came, hot and dry, and the woman’s hair shifted slowly, ornaments tinkling and jingling at they moved. How strange it was that she looked closest to a snake out of them all, green-brown eyes narrow and suspicious, arms crossed over her chest, dagger glinting in the shadowy light. 

But, she finally sheathed her dagger and let out a deep breath, posture relaxing a touch. 

“... It would be... foolish of me to pass up this offer,” she mused, sounding less as if she was speaking to them and more as if she was offering her thoughts to an unseen listener, a ghost eavesdropping. “Though I cannot trust you people just yet, I will not refuse this opportunity... if only to simply accompany you until we reach Stilsnow.” 

Tressa grinned. “Nice!” 

“Oh, I’m delighted that you’ll go with us after all!” enthused Ophilia, lightly clasping her hands before her. “Not just out of concern for your safety, of course... I do get forward to getting to know you, as well.” 

Therion noticed that the dancer found that surprising, and seemed to want to say something dismissive in response. However, she didn’t. Perhaps she was simply so confused that this was happening that she just went with it. 

She  _ did _ say that she’s had a terrible past few days, didn’t she? Therion thought he recalled something like that, just before she threatened him with killing him. Therefore, if those days really were as awful as they sounded, then perhaps the unexpected kindness of a ragtag group of travellers might have shocked her a bit. 

Alfyn, unsurprisingly, seemed just as happy as the women that she had joined their party. His expression was relaxed, pleasant, and Therion still couldn't understand it for the life of him. He didn't even  _ know _ her. 

“Well, if we’re gonna be travelin’ together, then we’ve gotta call ya somethin’,” he said, giving his usual roguish smile, and the woman considered that for a moment, long and tentative, as if wondering whether or not to entrust them with her name.

But, in the end, she did. 

“My name... is Primrose,” she replied, and it was spoken like a title, brimming with power somehow. 

“Primrose, eh?” repeated Alfyn, reaching out for a handshake. She blinked at his offered hand, then took it, if not without a vague look of discomfort. “Well, I’m Alfyn. Pleased to meet’cha.” 

“Y-yes, it is a pleasure to meet you, as well,” she replied, immediately, and it sounded instinctual. The motion she used to retract her hand once released was graceful, but fast. Therion deduced that she probably didn’t love being touched.

The rest of the group, if they hadn’t already, gave proper introductions. She didn't recoil near as much at Ophilia's touch, though she still seemed wary. 

Therion, however, said nothing, and she noticed this. 

“Little thief..." she said, towards him. "What did they say that your name was? Therion?” 

He snorted, shrugged. 

“Could be,” he replied, not wanting to make this easy, but Alfyn just giggled. 

“Hey now, don’t be a pain,” he chided, gently. “Yeah, his name’s Therion. I promise he’s real nice under that prickly skin.” 

“Am not,” he replied, immediately, and Alfyn just laughed, lightly thumped a hand on his shoulder. Primrose didn’t miss the slight flinch that he gave, watching him with incredibly sharp eyes. 

“Are, too,” rebuked Alfyn, playfully. “Primrose, if you’re talkin’ to this guy, you’ve just gotta remember one thing: he’s kinda like a chestnut.” 

In response to this, Therion let out a long, long groan.  _ Not  _ **_this_ ** _ again. _

“A... chestnut,” she repeated. Her expression suggested that she was unsure as to whether or not she ought to entertain his nonsense. “... You mean to say that he’s... spiny with a good heart, or something along those lines.”

“You get it! That’s it exactly,” Alfyn laughed, delighted that she understood. “Therion’s honestly a great person. Despite, uh, y’know... tryin’ to steal your dagger.” 

Primrose gave a vague shrug. She still seemed irritated over it, but her mood appeared less incensed, more tired. There was an exhaustion sitting deep in her eyes, and Therion wondered what had happened, to make her look  _ this _ miserable. 

She’s had a bad set of days. Perhaps she’d been betrayed, too?

“... All of us must make a living some way or another, I suppose,” she admitted. “Whores, dancers, and thieves are often lumped into the same category. I ought not to be too cruel to him.” 

_ Whore.  _ The harsh word drew raised eyebrows from several people in the group, but Therion's expression didn't change. She was right. They were all the same, in the eyes of the privileged.

"I do wonder if you might have anything in common with Therion, Primrose..." mused Cyrus, and he held his hands up in apology when they both glared at him. "N-not to make any... ah,  _ unsavoury _ implications here... I also wonder if you might bear similarities to  _ any  _ of us, of course...” 

Primrose blinked, then gave a small exhale of a laugh, sheathing her dagger. “... What can I say? I’m just a regular Sunlands girl. I like coconut wine and long walks in the sand dunes. Normally alone.” 

Therion got the distinct feeling that absolutely all of what she said (aside from the last line) was a lie. Her tone was too dry, too ironic for it to sound perfectly genuine. 

_ Just a regular Sunlands girl, huh....? _

Regular Sunlands girls, as far as he knew, didn’t murder people. 

_ Hmm... _

While he contemplated this, Alfyn mentioned something about going to the tavern, a decision which Therion, quite frankly, endorsed completely. However, the mere mention of the word “tavern” seemed to put Primrose on edge once more, posture tight, jaw clenching. Nobody but Therion seemed to notice, as Cyrus had begun chatting with Alfyn about something vapid and inconsequential as usual. Tressa was distracted, watching the locals walk past. Ophilia hadn’t been looking. 

Primrose disliked the tavern. That much, he could tell. 

They were about to head out, and yet she held still, staring fixedly at the ground. Her expression remained even, but there was a strange sort of pain hiding beneath the surface.

"Hey, you comin' along?" wondered Alfyn, pleasantly, and a tiny breath escaped her, tense, strained. 

“N-no. I cannot... go back there,” she said, and the confession was pained, uncomfortable. 

“You... can’t go back there?” repeated Tressa, but Ophilia shook her head at her, silently telling Tressa not to push the matter. 

“Well that’s quite alright,” replied Ophilia, smiling sympathetically. “Personally I care little for alcohol myself... would you rather accompany Tressa and myself back to the inn? You certainly don’t have to, though.” 

Primrose didn’t seem pleased with either option, but she eventually decided on following the girls back to the inn. 

“Well... if I’m to be traveling with you, then I suppose that I had might as well meet the remaining two members of the party,” she sighed. "Very well."

She said this, and went with them. Therion watched her leave, thinking that she wouldn't look back. However, before she got back to the main street, she glanced back and met his gaze. Her expression was uncertain, but it flattened back into impassiveness upon making eye contact with him. She didn't trust him, and he didn't trust her, either. 

Finally. He met someone sane on this trip. 

It should have satisfied him. It should have felt nice, knowing that he wasn't the only person in the group that was  _ like this. _ Being the only one who refused to trust every stranger that came across them, the only one that religiously checked the locks on the doors of the inns and the windows and sat with his back against the wall, the only one that checked for foreign objects or poisons in his food... was sad, in ways he hadn't fully understood before then. It felt safe, felt like the sensible thing to do. After all, even the most trustworthy people could turn out to be a traitor. 

His old partner... wasn't  _ exactly _ the most trustworthy person, no, but... 

_ Even though he didn't deserve it, I trusted him.  _

He almost wanted to laugh.  _ And look where that fucking got me. _

When he refocused, what he should have seen was himself, alone in an inn room, shaking from a cold that wouldn't dissipate and reeling from a pain that had never really left him since the fall, body hollow and empty from hunger, from crying, from missing someone who didn't even care about him.

What he saw instead was the warm colours of the desert city and the green of an apothecary's mantle, of gentle brown eyes smiling at him, of slender fingers readjusting the ribbon in his hair, and he realized that, with Cyrus and Alfyn still there, that they were waiting for  _ him. _

"Whaddaya say, Therion?" prompted Alfyn, smiling as if they were about to embark on some grand adventure together. "You wanna try some of this coconut wine Primrose mentioned?" 

_ I think she was being sarcastic, _ thought Therion, but his stomach was a bit empty and his want for a drink other than canteen water was growing. He wasn't sure about the flavour of coconuts, as he'd never had them before, but he nodded, muttered out a " _ sure, whatever _ ", and fell into step behind them. 

But, Alfyn dropped back a step and walked in sync with him, smiling as if this was simply how things were  _ supposed _ to be, and Therion let him. 

He let him, they walked and chatted (or, well, Cyrus and Alfyn did most of the talking, with the occasional word in from Therion) up the main road to the tavern, and, as they went up the steps and he glanced to the side, saw a dancer adjusting her clothes to hide bruises, he realized what it was that had been bothering him about Primrose, about how she, too, understood distrust. 

He had thought it to be pity. Pity, or mockery, or something else along those lines, something equally cruel, equally unpleasant for her to endure from him. 

It wasn't, though.     

It was concern.


End file.
